


do something pretty (while you can)

by renaissance



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 2000s, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - High School, Heavily Inspired by Clueless, M/M, Teen Romance, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-24 13:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10742232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: Everything is going wrong, and it’s all Viktor’s fault. It all started when he got Chris involved. That was a mistake. But no, it started before then. It started with Georgi and Anya. Even earlier, it started with one small victory that gave Viktor a lot of big ideas. It started when Lilia arrived with her ballet students on the very first day of term. Really, if Viktor’s being honest, it started the moment he met Yuuri.





	1. Act 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this chiefly last year and early this year, and after going through a more extensive beta process than anything i've ever written, it's finally ready to be posted! i'm so excited to share it! some notes, before we begin:
> 
>   * this is an alternate universe story with a plot based on the movie “clueless” (which is, in turn, based on jane austen’s novel “emma”) and set in the same period as “mean girls,” but knowledge of neither is required to read this. loosely, this is a teen movie AU about a small-town boy searching for big meaning.
>   * the title is from a belle and sebastian song, “we rule the school,” which has a line about doing pirouettes on ice and is the perfect theme song for this fic.
>   * it's set in 2003. there will be a series of period-accurate playlists, linked at the end of each chapter alongside notes and other references.
>   * a massive thank you to a. for beta reading and ameri-picking! this is the only piece of fiction i will ever write in american english, haha.
> 


_Dear Diary_ , Viktor begins. The next part is inevitable: he’ll spend a few minutes twirling his pen and staring into space and, when he blinks back to the clock, five minutes will have passed, or more, and he will have written nothing. Then, he’ll shut the journal in frustration, shove it in his desk drawer, and forget about it for another week.

But, no, today must be different. For the first time in—how long?—something _new_ has happened, something exciting enough to shake Viktor out of his self-diagnosed small town stupor. (Because that’s what it has to be—he is destined to walk the planks on Broadway, not work evenings at the pizza parlour, alternating between wiping down tables and taking orders with a not-at-all-forced smile. He doesn’t really need the money. He just likes the responsibility of being able to tell people he has a job.) The insularity of this community is bad for him. There’s no change—except when there is.

Here’s how it happened: Viktor was prepping his locker for the start of a new semester at Chawton Performing Arts Academy. He was replacing all the stickers that were now _so_ 2002 with much more up-to-date decals, when he heard a shout ring down the corridor.

“YAKOV!”

And of course, Viktor was stunned—no one got away with calling Mr. Feltsman by his first name except Viktor, and that’s because Viktor has always been his favourite student. He gets away with whatever he wants. So his natural curiosity overtook him and he closed his locker before he could finishing sticking the frame around his picture of Ricky Martin.

It was a woman, tall and graceful and dressed in stilettos that could’ve killed a man, and looked like they were about to, taking into consideration the way she was glaring at Yakov. Viktor was about to approach the scene of the crime and implicate himself as a material witness when someone grabbed his arm and pushed him back against the lockers.

“Wow,” Viktor said, “I’m not used to strangers being so forward, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

The boy who’d grabbed Viktor had thick, dorky glasses, reflecting enough of the light that Viktor couldn’t properly make out his expression. He was kind of cute, though, and he was looking at Viktor like he was nuts, mouth hanging open for a few seconds before he managed to form any words. “I’m not—um, don’t get involved. Let them work it out for themselves.”

“Oh, you know her?” Viktor asked.

“That’s Lilia Baranovskaya,” the boy said.

That name rang a bell. “Yakov’s ex-wife?”

The boy’s eyes went wide. “You know her ex-husband?”

“He teaches drama here,” Viktor said. “What’s she doing here?”

Flustered, the boy explained: “She’s starting today as the ballet teacher at this school.”

It made sense. The old ballet instructor had retired after one too many students had dropped out of her class. In fact, _all_ of the ballet students had dropped it—Viktor among them—and no students necessitated no teacher. Maybe this was to make up for it, or to encourage other students to take up ballet.

Viktor wasn’t planning on going back to it. Ever. But he couldn’t disguise his curiosity.

“And who are you?”

“I’m one of her pupils from Moscow,” he said. “Um, my name is Yuuri Katsuki.”

Yuuri explained that Lilia had brought ten of her best pupils with her, nine of them Russian and two of them named Yuri. Well, almost. As it turns out, there’s a world of difference between Yuri and _Yuuri_ —one is a Russian name, the other Japanese, and you have to make the _u_ long when you say it. Later that day, the Russian Yuri kicked Viktor in the shin, and the Japanese Yuuri skipped school with him to eat an early dinner in the skate park; back in the corridor, Viktor had already decided that this Yuuri would be his favourite.

Not that he could be seen hanging out with someone as uncool as a ballet student.

Lilia and her new ballet class were formally introduced to all the dance students that afternoon. They got a period off for the special assembly, and all of them, especially the younger students, were encouraged to take up ballet. The older students weren’t the real targets, but the seniors—like Viktor—were taken aside afterwards and told to set a good example by befriending the ballet students.

“You two especially,” Yakov said, throwing a dirty look at Viktor and Georgi. “But for the love of all that is good, don’t go speaking to them in Russian. They need to get used to English.”

Viktor was already in a bad mood, because the period he was missing was vocal technique with Mr. Cialdini, and it’s always been one of his favourite classes. “They’re all kids,” he said. “I’m not hanging out with kids.”

“You are seventeen,” Yakov said firmly, “and Mila and—the Japanese one, they’re both in their junior year. Nevertheless, your age shouldn’t exempt you from looking out for the younger ones. Understood?”

“Understood,” said Georgi, the suck-up.

At least Viktor had Chris on his side—Chris stood back with his arms folded, and Viktor turned in time to catch him rolling his eyes as he said, “Whatever.”

They shared a look. It wasn’t just because the ballet students were kids. It was because there’s something so inherently uncool about devoting yourself to one thing like that, walking around looking daggy in dance clothes. Chris got that.

Turning away from Chris, Viktor cast an appraising glance over the ballet students. “Look at that one,” he said, lifting one arm and pointing to the shortest, a little blonde kid who had his hands on his hips. “Is he even old enough to be in high school?”

He must’ve spoken too loudly, because the kid turned around and pointed an accusing finger right back at Viktor. In perfect (if accented) English, he said, “I’m a freshman, dickhead!”

That was Russian Yuri. Viktor thinks he’s a good kid. He just needs some time to mellow out.

Still, the kick to Viktor’s shin was enough to warrant a check-up, or maybe Viktor was just being overdramatic, but he’d already missed vocal technique and he didn’t have the patience to sit through the rest of the day—and, well, after he’d got into a scuffle with a freshman, Chris and Georgi had effectively disowned him for the next few hours, which was no less than he deserved.

“I guess I’ll just limp to the nurse’s office.”

No one was looking at him by then, and he thought he was complaining all to his beleaguered self. It was a pleasant surprise, then, when Yuuri appeared beside him.

“Do you want to take my arm?”

“Oh,” Viktor said, and then he didn’t say else for a few seconds, which was long enough for Yuuri to cut in.

“Um, I only thought—since you hurt your leg—if that’s weird then—”

Yuuri stopped babbling when Viktor took hold of his arm and leant all of his weight onto him. Ballet students are strong. Viktor knew Yuuri would cope. He did overbalance a little, but not enough for either of them to fall.

“I’ll rely on you,” Viktor said.

Yuuri let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know the way.”

That was fine—Viktor was easily familiar with the nurse’s office from years of dance-related sprains and vocal technique-related strain. The nurse didn’t have much time for Viktor’s minor complaint. She decided that no damage had been done except for the boot-scuff to his jeans—which cost a _lot_ of money, so it was actually pretty grievous, but the nurse was having none of it.

Outside the office, aimless and disoriented, Viktor asked Yuuri, “Want to cut class and get pizza? Everyone goes to Crispino’s; you’ll end up there eventually.”

Yuuri hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s my first day. I shouldn’t break the rules.”

“ _Everyone_ breaks the rules,” Viktor said. “Don’t you want to spend more time with me, Yuuri?”

And that’s how they ended up in the skate park with an early dinner—because apparently, Yuuri _did_ want to spend more time with Viktor. It could only be the magnetic draw of Viktor’s popularity, his charm and his personality, but it didn’t feel like that. It felt like friendship.

The biggest problem with writing in a diary is that Viktor’s always found it much easier to talk through these things. The written word has never been his forte. Actually, the biggest problem is that Chris and Georgi still aren’t talking to him, or they’re away from their cellphones and not responding. The biggest problem is that Yuuri doesn’t even have a cellphone. It’s okay. Viktor will fix that in good time.

He puts down his pen, pausing a moment, then picks it up again. All in good time. For now, he’ll keep it quiet. No one needs to know that he’s thinking about befriending someone as uncool as one of the new ballet students. He gets it off his chest the only way he can: _Dear Diary_ , _I finally have something out of the ordinary to write about_ …

 

* * *

 

First period Thursday is vocal technique, which is a relief, but Mr. Cialdini has little patience for the dance students who missed yesterday’s class and gets them to stay back ten minutes after to go through what they missed.

“Luckily for me and my failing patience,” Mr. Cialdini says, “there are only three of you who missed yesterday’s lesson. Unfortunately, it’s _you three_.”

Viktor gives the teacher his most innocent smile. “But Mr. Cialdini, vocal technique is our favourite class! We were heartbroken to miss it!”

“I’m sure you were,” Mr. Cialdini says. He twists his mouth into a frown. “Well, let’s get on with it.”

They go through the material in what feels like a lot more than ten minutes, so it’s a relief when Mr. Cialdini lets them out. Viktor undoes his top button as soon as they’re off school grounds and pulls his hair from its braid, snapping the hairtie around his wrist.

“God, it got even longer over summer,” Georgi says.

“You weren’t here for the drama,” Chris says. “He stole your tape measure and he’s been measuring it every day. Have you broken your record yet?”

“Twenty-two inches!” Viktor says proudly. “Not long now until it’s two feet.”

Georgi flicks at Viktor’s hair—Viktor never minds. “Unbelievable. And are you ever going to return my tape measure? How did you even get into my bedroom?”

“Your parents love me, Georgi,” Viktor says, which is true, and Georgi doesn’t need to know that they left his windows open during the day and it was all too easy for Viktor to scale the tree outside and grab the tape measure. The only reason Georgi’s parents didn’t call the cops is because they love Viktor like a second son.

“What else did I miss?” Georgi asks. “Any parties?”

Chris takes out the spiral-bound notebook he uses to document everywhere he’s gotten laid. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Tonight!” Georgi says, swatting at the notebook. “Everyone at camp was so straight-laced. I missed drinking. I missed _Anya_.”

Viktor rolls his eyes. Of course, Georgi can’t even go a month without thinking about his precious girlfriend. So _boring_. They’ve been going out since they were, like, fourteen. So long with so little change. Viktor doesn’t know how Georgi lives like that.

“Well, we can’t party tonight,” he says. “I’m working.”

Chris yawns conspicuously, and Viktor jabs at his arm.

“Hey! Don’t even think about having fun without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Chris says.

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” Georgi says. “Surely someone’s got something planned.”

“I’ll keep an ear out,” Viktor says.

He leaves them at the crossroads and heads towards town. It’s not a long walk to the pizza parlour, Crispino’s. The family have owned it since time immemorial and Viktor shares his shifts with the owners’ daughter Sara, who’s a junior at the Academy. She majors in dance, like Viktor, so they cross paths a lot—but she mostly does ballroom with her twin brother Mickey, who is obscenely overprotective. Every time Viktor does a shift at Crispino’s, Mickey’s grudge against him only gets stronger. It was annoying at first, but now it’s just funny, because Mickey is probably the only person who hasn’t caught on that Viktor likes boys, and Sara likes girls.

Sara’s already there and changed into her uniform when Viktor arrives. He calls out to greet her.

“You’d better tie your hair back, or dad’s going to kick your ass,” Sara says. “I’m pretty sure that shit’s a health hazard.”

“Can you do it in a bun for me?” Viktor asks. “I have some bobby pins somewhere in my bag.”

“Ugh,” Sara says. “I just washed my hands. Okay. Fine.”

When she’s done, she pats the top of Viktor’s bun. “You could join Ms. Baranovskaya’s ballet class with your hair like this.”

Viktor pulls a face. “Don’t even joke. What kind of loser do I look like?”

Sara snorts. “Yeah, the new kids do kind of give off _loser_ vibes. All that standing on their toes can’t be good for them.”

“Definitely,” Viktor says. “I don’t mind Yuuri, though.”

He can say these things to Sara because she’s not as popular as he is, so she’s in no position to judge him.

“Yuri? Chris told me he tried to kill you ‘cause you said he looked like a little kid.”

“No, _Yuu_ ri,” Viktor says. “From Japan. He walked me to sick bay after Russian Yuri beat me up.”

Sara pauses, holding back a laugh—although she can’t hold it for long. “You got beat up by a _freshman_.”

Turns out there are plenty of reasons for her to be judgmental.

“He didn’t _really_ beat me up,” Viktor says. “He just kicked me.”

“You said it,” Sara says, and Viktor shuts up, because he can’t argue with that. Sometimes, his melodrama fails him.

The shift starts slowly, with the usual after-school customers from the local public filtering in. Viktor doesn’t really know anyone from the public school. There’s an awkward divide between them and the Academy, and it doesn’t help that most of the students at the Academy are from immigrant families, or straight-up imports, like Viktor and the new ballet students. It can get a bit small-town racist—just another reason Viktor needs to pack up and leave this place. But while he’s working, he grins and he bears it. If someone makes fun of his accent, that’s their problem, not his. School is his sanctuary, where he’s judged solely on how high he can leap and how loud he can belt a top G. And no one can leap higher or belt louder than Viktor.

He likes passing his time near the windows, when he can see who’s coming and going, even just people walking by on the street. He greets people and shows them to a free table, talks them through the daily specials. He’s just explaining the concept of a margherita to an elderly couple who must be from out of town when he notices someone familiar, at the other side of the road waiting for the light to change. His heart skips a beat.

“You take some more time to decide,” he tells the couple. “I’ll be right back.”

He’s ready at the door even before the light goes green, watching as they cross the road.

“Yuuri! Welcome to Crispino’s. Table for three?”

It’s too late—he registers that there are three people before seeing who the other two are.

“How the hell do you know my name?” Russian Yuri demands, poking a finger into Viktor’s chest.

Viktor clutches at his apron, wounded. “I was talking to Yuuri—who, incidentally, told me your name yesterday. Table for three?”

Yuuri gives him a grateful smile. “Yes. Thank you. I didn’t know you worked here.”

They hold eye contact for just a second too long before Viktor tears his gaze away.

“How else do you think I got that pizza so cheaply yesterday?” he says, all casual, tapping the side of his nose with his order-pad pen. “Staff discounts.”

“I didn’t know you were friends with him,” says the girl with them, as Viktor shows them to a table. It takes Viktor a second to realise she’s talking _about_ him, to Yuuri.

“We only met yesterday,” Yuuri says. “But yes, we’re friends.”

Viktor grins, but catches himself and switches back to neutral. He’s lucky he has his back to them. It’s all well and good for Yuuri to say that, but Viktor absolutely cannot have anyone at school knowing he’s friends with one of the ballet kids. Too embarrassing.

He leaves them with menus and heads back to the counter, where Sara’s waving him over.

“Don’t make fun of me,” he says warningly.

“I wasn’t going to,” Sara says. “The girl with Yuuri and Yuri—who is she?”

“I think her name is Mila,” Viktor says, remembering what Yakov said about the two juniors in the ballet class. Although what little Yuri is doing hanging out with them, he doesn’t know.

“Oh my god,” Sara says, “ _Mila_. Holy shit, Viktor. She’s _hot_.”

“Careful,” Viktor teases. “You don’t want anyone to know you’ve got the hots for a loser.”

“You could hook up with Yuuri,” Sara says, putting careful stress on the long _u_. “Then we can go on double dates. Oh my god, Viktor, she’s beautiful. I’m going to marry her.”

Viktor scrunches up his nose. “I don’t want to date anyone right now. You know that. And you shouldn’t, either—at our age, we’ve got our whole lives ahead of us. Deciding who you want to marry now is just stupid.”

“Ugh, you’re so boring,” Sara says.

“Funny,” Viktor says, “I feel exactly the same about you.”

Sara rolls her eyes at him. “Hey, shouldn’t you have taken that couple’s order by now?”

It’s true, but it’s a bad excuse—Sara goes straight to the ballet students’ table and proceeds to shamelessly flirt with Mila, while Viktor watches out of the corner of his eye. Well, they’re both juniors, so he supposes it wouldn’t be so bad. Sara isn’t one of the popular kids, anyway. She doesn’t have a reputation to protect in the same way that Viktor does.

Sara claims their table as her customers, so they should be out of Viktor’s control. He doesn’t let up, though, hovering about their table when Sara’s busy elsewhere.

“Is everything to your satisfaction?” he asks in his exemplary customer service voice.

It’s Yuuri who answers. “The food is very good,” he says, “but the waiter…”

“Oh?” Viktor leans one hand on the edge of Yuuri’s chair, his voice teasing. “In that case, maybe I can put a complaint in to my manager.”

“Tell your manager that Viktor is spending too much time chatting and not enough working,” Yuuri says. He half-heartedly smirks, but it dissolves into a blush quickly enough.

Viktor grins. “I’ll pass on the message.”

After that, Viktor goes through the motions and gets to the end of his shift. The ballet students stay there until it’s late, but of course none of them have parents to go home to. Viktor wonders where they’re living.

They wait around even as Sara locks up, and Viktor finds himself waiting too. Russian Yuri comes up to him, hands in his pockets.

“Hey, I’m…”

He trails off. Japanese Yuuri appears behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Yura.”

“I’m sorry for kicking you,” Yuri says quickly. “Or, whatever.”

“Did the wind change direction while you had that look on your face?” Viktor leans down to look him in the eye. “Such an ugly scowl on such a cute child.”

“What the fuck!” Yuri yells. Viktor is grateful there are no more customers. “I’m not a fucking child! What the fuck is your problem, you—”

“Viktor Nikiforov. You can call me Vitya, if you like!”

“I’ll call you fucking _grandpa_ , you shithead,” Yuri says. He pauses, his nostrils flared like an angry bull. “I take it back. I’m not fucking sorry for kicking you. But I’m not gonna kick you again. That would be a waste of my time.”

“Yura—” Yuuri begins, but Yuri’s already gone.

“Ah,” Yuuri says. “I’m sorry about him. You’re not the first local he’s picked a fight with.”

“I’m not really a local,” Viktor says, waving a hand around.

“Where are you from?” Mila asks him. He hadn’t noticed her there. “I mean, where in Russia?”

“Saint Petersburg,” Viktor says. “But I’ve lived here for a while now.”

Mila nods. “We’re from Moscow. Well, all of us except Yuuri.”

“But I’ve lived there for a while now,” Yuuri says, looking away.

He’s shy, self-conscious. That much is obvious. Still, there’s something intriguing about him. Given how America has changed Viktor… he can only imagine what it’s like to be twice displaced. He gets a flash of something familiar when he looks at Yuuri. Maybe he’s seeing himself, when he first left home.

Sara appears then, shoving a hot pizza box at Viktor. “Dinner. Just take it.”

She knows Viktor doesn’t like other people’s charity, but he has gotten used to the Crispino family lavishing him with homecooked meals. “Thank you.”

They part ways; Sara lives close by, and Mila and Yuuri are heading in a different direction to Viktor. Before they leave, Yuuri turns over his shoulder and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Vit—ah, Viktor.”

“See you then!” Viktor says, waving, although he’s not sure.

He sets off with the pizza from Crispino’s. It’s only a fifteen minute walk home, but his dinner is cold by the time he sits down at his desk. He adjusts the photo that’s sitting in the corner, of his poodle back home, and opens the box at an angle so he can still see the photo.

That night, like so many other nights, he forgets to write in his diary.

 

* * *

 

A week and a bit into term, Viktor makes a list of all the things that have changed since Lilia and her students came to town.

One—Viktor has made a friend and an enemy, and both of them are named Yuri. Well, the friend is named Yuuri, and the enemy is Yuri. How you pronounce the letter _u_ makes a world of difference. Viktor doesn’t know why Yuuri likes him, apart from the obvious. He _is_ the coolest boy in school. But Yuuri doesn’t seem to care about that, so there’s some mystery to it. And Viktor doesn’t know why Yuri hates him. Viktor has been nothing but delightful to the young dancer.

Two—Sara has joined the ballet class. All she talks about now is Mila, how Mila wears her hair, where Mila buys her nail polish, which dress Mila is going to wear on their not-quite-a-date-yet this weekend. Mickey is beginning to get the hint. Viktor is happy for her, even though she’s turned herself into a loser by hanging out with Mila and Yuuri all the time.

Three—and this is the big one—Yakov is acting different. He’s kinder sometimes, but he’s also more volatile. Every period when Viktor’s down in the theatre, Yakov seems distracted. He keeps wandering past the door that leads out towards the dance studio, looking down the corridor with some sort of _emotion_ on his face.

It takes Viktor another week before he works out what is, and in hindsight it’s such a _duh_ moment. Yakov and Lilia are exes—and Yakov’s been in America for ages, so it’s only natural that he’d be pining for her after so long apart. Viktor has to admit, it’s kind of cute. They’re old enough for long-term romance. He’ll allow it.

In fact, it occurs to him that he should do more than just allow it.

Over lunch, he asks, “Georgi, how did you get together with Anya?”

“What’s this?” Chris says, leaning across their table in the cafeteria with his chin resting in his hands. “Is Viktor thinking of asking someone out?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Viktor says. “You should know me well enough to know that’s not the case.”

“Why do you want to know, then?” Georgi asks. “Some things are _private_ , Viktor.”

Viktor and Chris share a look, because they spent many a night over summer racking up their cellphone bills to share very _private_ stories. Granted, most (if not all) of the stories were Chris’s, but that’s besides the point.

“That’s besides the point,” Viktor says. “If you must know… I’m trying to get two people together. And as you know, I’m a little _inexperienced_ in that department. You should feel honored, Georgi, that I’m coming to you for help.”

Georgi doesn’t look convinced, so Viktor decides to lay it on thick.

“Your relationship is a real inspiration to someone like me,” he says. “Please, Georgi.”

Ever the long-suffering one, Georgi heaves a sigh. “I knew she liked me,” he says. “We had a thing going, you know? But I tried asking her out a few times, and she held out on me. So I started to send her flowers. Like, leaving them in her locker and stuff. Eventually she realised that I was serious, and the next time I asked her out, she said yes!”

He gets this sort of wistful look on his face. Gross.

But there’s something in it. Viktor feels the seed of an idea forming in his head. “Great!” he says. “So who wants to come with me to the florist after school?”

“You _are_ going to ask someone out,” Chris says. “Who is it? Anyone we know?”

“As if,” Viktor says. “I don’t know anyone as cool as the three of us, and I’m obviously not planning on asking out either of you. Which means no one. I told you it’s for two other people, didn’t I?”

“And we don’t get to know who?” Georgi almost sounds a bit hurt by it.

Viktor taps his nose. “I’ll tell you if it works.”

He does need help with it, though. For one, there’s no way his plan will come to fruition if it’s just him, because it involves going near Lilia’s office, and Viktor gets the feeling she’s not too fond of him. Something something Yuri’s her favourite student, or whatever. That’s uncharted territory that Viktor doesn’t want to tread without a guide.

It’s a good thing, then, that he knows exactly who to go to.

“Yuuri!”

He’s by himself, at the bus stop. Not that Viktor had followed him across the schoolyard after classes ended just to make sure he was alone, or anything like that.

“Oh, Viktor.” Yuuri gives him a wave. “Is everything okay? You look…”

“Excited?” Viktor tries. “Beautiful? Ingenious?”

“Let’s go with excited,” Yuuri says.

Viktor claps his hands together. “Ding ding ding! Correct! I’ve got a cunning plan, Yuuri, but I need your help with it.”

“Why does this already sound like a bad idea,” Yuuri says.

“It’s not, it’s not!” Viktor pauses to untie his braid, letting his hair fall loose over his shoulders. “Listen. Has Ms. Baranovskaya been acting strange lately?”

Yuuri goes very quiet, which Viktor takes as confirmation.

“I knew it!”

“Huh?” Yuuri blinks, taking an unsteady step backwards. “I was just—your hair is really long.”

“Oh, yeah,” Viktor says, “but I can only get it this long because it’s so thin. Otherwise it would be too heavy.”

“Um, what were you saying about Ms. Baranovksaya?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor explains the situation in full, and Yuuri agrees that there’s something to be said for his theory. Lilia _has_ been acting strangely, if you count keeping her students longer hours and making them do increasingly unphysical drills as “strange.” It could easily be explained by some sort of performance anxiety, the stress of proving yourself in a new place— _or_ it could be down to her sudden proximity to her ex-husband, and the rekindling of an old flame.

And Yuuri agrees with Viktor’s theory—a minor miracle, though Viktor would never admit it, because it’s been years since he could get his real friends to engage in something so outlandish as recreational matchmaking. But here is Yuuri, leaving the bus stop with him and walking into town to buy flowers.

They choose a bouquet with pink carnations and white roses, simple but elegant. When the lady at the counter asks if they want a message printed on a card, Viktor sees another opportunity.

“Yes,” he says, “I’d like it to say, ’To dearest Lilia, the only woman for me.’”

The woman smiles knowingly as she types it into her computer. “Who’s that, your girlfriend?”

Yuuri muffles a laugh with his hand, but Viktor manages to contain his amusement to a cool smirk. “I’m buying these on behalf of someone else,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri tells him once they’re outside, “but the idea that Lilia is your girlfriend—”

“La la la,” Viktor sings, “I’m not listening!”

So they walk on in silence, down the main street and out of the town center. It doesn’t stay light so late here in summer, but the shops are still busy, and if it’s an odd sight, no one takes notice of the two boys with the massive bouquet of flowers.

“You’re not working tonight?” Yuuri asks. He’s holding the flowers all bundled up in his arms—they do look heavy—with the promise to drop by the school and leave them on Lilia’s desk.

“No,” Viktor says. He pictures his empty fridge and frowns. “Which means I have to think of something to cook.”

“I can bring you dinner,” Yuuri says. “Ah! I mean—if that’s not weird? I just thought, it must be tough having to cook for yourself.”

“Why, what do you do?” Viktor asks.

“Our boarding house is all meals provided,” Yuuri says.

That must be nice. Viktor imagines what it would be like to live in a big house with Chris and Georgi and someone to cook all their meals. He makes a note to look up rent and how much it costs to hire a chef on a full-time basis next time he’s in the school’s computer room.

“I hope it’s not impolite to ask,” Yuuri says, “but do you live alone?”

“I do,” Viktor says. He doesn’t want to elaborate.

“Then, it’s settled,” Yuuri says. “Tell me your address. I’ll bring you dinner as soon as I’m done with these flowers.”

Dinner is boarding house rice and stew in worn tupperware, and a sachet each of salt and pepper. It’s still hot and so worth the wait. Yuuri even made sure to bring his own food instead of dining at the boarding house so that Viktor wouldn’t be eating alone. Viktor is charmed.

He doesn’t really have a dining table in the apartment, so they stand in the kitchen to eat. The kitchen hasn’t seen much use, because it’s so easy for Viktor to live off his inheritance and takeaway—he has some ready-meals in the freezer for emergencies. Most of the time, when he’s in the kitchen it’s to get a glass of water. So it’s equal parts strange and comforting to fill the space, to have someone else around to chat with and to help with the washing up.

“This is a quiet neighborhood,” Yuuri comments. He’s running the tupperware under the hot tap so he can reuse it later. “Do you like living alone?”

“I like the freedom,” Viktor says. He’s on drying duty.

Yuuri hums to himself. “Have you lived alone for long?”

“Since the start of my junior year,” Viktor says. “I lived with Yakov before that.”

“Scary,” Yuuri says, laughing.

“He’s not so bad,” Viktor says. “He’s never had kids, though, so I think I got on his nerves sometimes.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who’d get on anyone’s nerves,” Yuuri says. He hands Viktor the last tupperware lid to dry off. “I mean—maybe you used to be worse.”

Viktor is shocked for half a second before relaxing into an easy smile. There’s no malice behind Yuuri’s words. It’s the most innocent insult Viktor’s ever received. He finishes drying the lid and puts it down with the other pieces. “Much worse. You’re lucky you’re friends with me now, and not then.”

“I guess so,” Yuuri says, his lips pursed in a shy half-smile. “Ah. I should get back. It’s later than I thought.”

“I’ll walk you there,” Viktor says. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for dinner.”

The suburbs are quiet at this time of night. It’s not a long walk from Viktor’s apartment to the boarding house, but the most direct path is through the back streets and the only guide they have is Yuuri’s brand new town map ($2.50, from the post office) and the dim glow of the street lamps. Viktor walks close by Yuuri, leaning over his shoulder and using his cellphone screen to cast a light onto the map.

“I don’t recognize this road,” Yuuri says.

“Didn’t you come this way?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri shrugs, brushing Viktor’s hair away from where it’s dangling onto the map. “I thought so. But now I’m not sure.”

Viktor looks up, casts his cellphone around, but the light doesn’t carry very far. “I think this is—”

He stops. There are footsteps coming from around the corner and a one-sided conversation, someone talking on the phone. He recognises the voice easily as Chris’s—it’s certainly the right neighbourhood for Chris to be around.

After a moment, it sinks in: Viktor absolutely cannot let Chris know he’s hanging out with one of the ballet students.

“There’s someone coming,” he whispers, shoving his phone into his pocket. “We should go back the way we came.”

Even in the dark, Viktor can see the bewildered expression on Yuuri’s face. “I’m sure it’ll be—”

“Just in case,” Viktor says. He doesn’t want to give Yuuri the wrong impression of Chawton—it’s a safe place, really—but he can’t think of any other options and there’s no time to run. On impulse, he takes Yuuri by the wrist and drags him into someone’s front yard, pulling them down behind a tall, perfectly-trimmed hedge. Yuuri opens his mouth to say something; Viktor puts a finger to Yuuri’s lip. They crouch there in still silence until the conversation fades into the distance.

“I hope I didn’t scare you,” Viktor says. “It’s just that we don’t really know where we are, and anything can happen when you’re out at night.”

Yuuri nods. “It’s okay. Let’s keep going.”

He walks a little closer to Viktor after that. It gives Viktor something to think about—he can’t really hang out with Yuuri at school, so he needs to keep cultivating these occasions. Otherwise there’d be no way to sustain their burgeoning friendship.

“Do you want to come over some other time?” Viktor asks. “Maybe Saturday?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. “I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Viktor gets to school early, for the first time in at least two years. It’s very quiet when he makes his way down to the theatre—only the backstage kids get there so early, and because there are no shows on yet, they’re not around.

It’s worth it, though, for the conversation he overhears from down the corridor that leads to the dance studio.

“Yakov,” Lilia is saying in Russian, “I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t understand,” Yakov replies. “What are you—”

“The flowers on my desk, Yakov,” Lilia says. “I know they’re from you.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then Yakov says, “Can I see them?”

“What do you mean, can you see them?” Lilia snaps.

“I—I had them delivered,” Yakov said, “over the phone. I never got to see what they looked like.”

Viktor shoves a hand over his mouth and shuts his eyes, shaking with silent laughter. This is too good. Yakov’s playing along, and Viktor feels like a god.

“Of course,” Lilia says, softening. “Of course you may.”

Their footsteps recede, and once he can no longer hear them, Viktor bolts, tears in the corners of his eyes. He finds Yuuri waiting for him just outside the theatre.

“Well? What happened?”

“It totally worked!” Viktor says. “Yakov acted like the flowers were from him, and Lilia was being all romantic. I think they’re going to get back together!”

Yuuri looks pensive. “You know, I was a little skeptical, even when I agreed to help you, so I’m impressed. You’ve done something really nice for these two, Viktor. Something really selfless.”

In all seventeen years of Viktor’s life, one word that has _never_ been used to describe him is “selfless”—he likes how it sounds. He could get used to being “selfless.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor didn’t have to do anything except set the wheels in motion. A week later, he hears from Sara who heard from Mila who saw with her own two eyes that Yakov and Lilia were at a cafe together, staring longingly into each other’s eyes.

“Apparently they were being super gross,” Sara says, pushing the till closed. She turns to the paying customer—“Thank you for coming to Crispino’s! We hope to see you again soon!”—and back to Viktor. “Anyway, they were, like, holding hands on the way out. I think they’re totally an item again.”

“Amazing,” Viktor says. “I’m so happy for them!” He hops off the counter and picks up a broom. It’s close to closing time, so he might as well start cleaning.

“It’s crazy how love works,” Sara says. “Mila says they’ve been divorced twenty-odd years. But being here and seeing each other again brought back all the passion… ah, just thinking about it makes me all mushy. Old people are so cute.”

“Actually,” Viktor begins, and he’s about to tell her that it took more than just the two of them being in the same place when the door swings open and Chris and Georgi barge in.

“You two are a little late for pizza,” Sara says. “Kitchen’s closed.”

Viktor waves his broom at them. “Shoo.”

Chris grabs the broom and yanks it from Viktor. “We’re not here for food. We’re here to pick up some baggage.”

“He means you,” Georgi tells Viktor helpfully.

“There’s a party at JJ’s place tonight,” Chris says, prodding the broom handle at Viktor’s chest. “Time to let your hair down.”

“Not while he’s still in the shop,” Sara says. “Health hazard.”

Viktor groans. “I don’t like JJ’s parties. They’re so boring.”

“Yeah, but his weird Canadian parents let him raid their wine cellar,” Georgi says. “Come on.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Viktor says. “Just let me get changed.”

There’s no question that Sara’s not invited. Viktor thinks about that on the walk there. She might’ve had a chance before semester started, but now that she’s joined the ballet class she only hangs out with losers. And not just Mila and Yuuri anymore—Sara seems to have made a whole new group of friends who streak their hair and listen to Weezer. Viktor still likes her, but he couldn’t be seen with her at a party.

Sometimes he questions that. Why should popularity matter so much? He’s not sure, but it _does_. It’s why he couldn’t let Chris see him with Yuuri. And it changes so quickly, like something almost seasonal. It only took a few weeks for Sara to go from “passably popular” to “totally lame.”

Viktor wonders if it could go the other way.

When they make it to JJ’s house the party’s already going on inside, and Isabella greets them at the door. “Should’ve known I’d see the terrible trio here!”

“Now the party will _really_ start,” Chris says. He cups his hands around his mouth and calls out to inside, “Make way for trouble!”

Isabella laughs and takes his arm, leading the way inside. Viktor likes Isabella, but he thinks she could do better than JJ. Maybe he could set her up with someone else, and wouldn’t that be selfless of him? He’s practically a licensed matchmaker already.

As Chris schmoozes and pretends he likes JJ for the sake of a bottle of champagne, Viktor and Georgi hang back and get some of the cheaper wine that’s on offer. It’s so classless, drinking sav blanc from a red plastic cup, but it’s the fastest way to get drunk, and that’s all anyone here cares about.

Viktor, however, has other things on his mind.

“Do you think,” he asks Georgi, “that it’s possible to make someone popular?”

“I don’t know,” Georgi says. “Have you seen Anya? Is she here yet?”

“Ugh, pay attention!” Viktor says. “I’m pondering a seriously big question here. It just seems like… a really nice thing to do for someone, you know? I’m all about altruism now.”

Georgi snorts into his wine. “Altruism? You?”

“Mock me all you like,” Viktor says, standing up straighter. “Do you remember when I asked you for advice on how to get two people together? That was Yakov and Ms. Baranovskaya. I bought flowers and put them on Lilia’s desk with an anonymous message. And it _worked_. They’re back together now, Sara told me so.”

“Okay,” Georgi says, “that is impressive.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Viktor says. “So I thought I could go into the business of matchmaking. But there are only so many fish in the sea. I need to branch out. I need to be the kind of person who gives meaning to other people’s lives.”

Chris joins them with two bottles of champagne, one tucked under each arm. “Ready to get wasted, boys?”

“Just a second,” Georgi says, “Viktor’s having a genius moment.”

“Right, right!” Viktor says, glad to have Georgi’s support. “I’m into altruism now, Chris.”

“What’s altruism, some kind of pill?” Chris asks.

“It’s giving for giving’s sake,” Viktor explains, although he thinks Chris might’ve been joking. “It’s the joy of being a good person despite receiving no reward.”

“Lame,” Chris says.

“Hear me out,” Viktor says. “I have an idea—a _revolutionary_ idea—but I’ll need you two on board. I want to make someone popular. From scratch, from the bottom up. Which means taking him under our wing, accepting him into our friendship group with no questions asked, and being _encouraging_ , never teasing. Do you think you’re up to the task?”

“I don’t know,” Georgi says. “It takes a lot to be as popular as we are. And I don’t know any other triple threats in senior year.”

“He’s a junior, and he’s not a triple threat,” Viktor says. “Like I said—blank slate, empty canvas, whatever. It’ll be our first good deed as a team!”

“Sounds like you’ve already got someone in mind,” Chris says.

Viktor grins. There’ll be no more hiding behind bushes now. “I do. Oh, I very much do.”

“Who?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [playlist and notes](http://darkages.dreamwidth.org/703.html)


	2. Act 2

“Yuuri,” Viktor says.

“Hmm?”

Viktor is dangling backwards off the side of his bed. “Do you ever get bored?”

“Is that a trick question?” Yuuri asks. He’s sitting on the floor of Viktor’s room doing his homework—homework, on a _weekend_.

“Are you bored right now?” Viktor asks.

“No,” Yuuri says, “I’m doing math problems.”

“You like math?”

“Not really, but it keeps me occupied,” Yuuri says. “It feels like you’re leading up to something here.”

Viktor hops off the bed and onto the floor, sitting cross-legged right in front of Yuuri. “Let’s go shopping.”

“Let me finish my math first,” Yuuri says, giving Viktor a reassuring smile, “and then we can go shopping.”

It’ll be worth it—Viktor is skipping Rosh Hashanah at Yakov’s to spend the day with Yuuri—so Viktor waits patiently. Well, as patiently as he can wait. He’s not the kind of person who can sit still for long. He manages to sit like that for a good three minutes before shifting, and then he moves back onto the bed, back onto the floor, rests his head on Yuuri’s thigh and lets Yuuri play with his hair while he does his maths.

“You don’t cope well with boredom,” Yuuri says.

“Not really,” Viktor says.

“Okay.” He tugs at a strand of Viktor’s hair, letting his touch linger. “Put this away. We’re going shopping.”

Viktor leaps to his feet, grinning. At last—he can begin to set his plan in motion.

They get a bus to the mall and pause in the food court for lunch. It’s always busy on Saturdays, so Viktor drags Yuuri around until they find a seat away from all the emos and scene kids.

“Let’s draw up a plan of attack,” Viktor says. “First, we need to get you some new clothes for school.”

“What’s wrong with my school clothes?”

Yuuri looks a little hurt, but Viktor powers through it. “You look like you’re always dressed to go to ballet class.”

“That’s because I _am_ always dressed for ballet,” Yuuri says.

“You can bring your ballet clothes in a gym bag,” Viktor says. “It’s very fashionable.”

“I guess,” Yuuri says. “But no one’s going to see me. I don’t need to be fashionable.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Viktor says, tapping the side of his nose. “Everyone is always looking, Yuuri. You need to be fashionable all the time if you want to be popular.”

“Who says I want to be popular?”

The words hang in the air between them. Viktor lets them sit there for a while, an open question, hoping Yuuri will come to the answer of his own accord—but he doesn’t, or if he does, he doesn’t let on, which would be even more annoying.

“All my friends are popular,” Viktor says eventually. “It’s a natural side-effect of hanging around with me. Sometimes it just… takes a little work to get there.”

Yuuri breaks the tension, laughing. “You’re weird, you know that?”

First “selfless,” now “weird”—Viktor wonders if Yuuri can see a side to him that no one else can. Chris and Georgi are all well and good for tagging along with Viktor to parties, but maybe he needs something more than that. A confidante. With time, that could be Yuuri.

They start at American Eagle, rifling through polo shirts to replace all of Yuuri’s comfortable and worn t-shirts, and then Viktor picks out a few pairs of chinos and artfully distressed jeans that will make Yuuri’s ass look incredible, unlike those ugly track pants he always wears. Yuuri spends an hour in the changing rooms, going through different outfit combinations at Viktor’s whim, until he begins to look presentable.

“Okay!” Viktor says, once they’ve got a whole selection of new outfits. “I think we’re ready to buy you some shoes now. We can start with a pair of Oxfords, and then—”

“Wait, Viktor.” Yuuri runs a hand through his bangs, and Viktor is struck by how much better he looks without his hair all hanging in his eyes. “I can’t afford all of this.”

“Oh, is that all?” Viktor says. “Don’t worry about that; I’ll be paying.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow above the rim of his glasses, covers it with his bangs as he drops his hand. “You’d buy me an entirely new wardrobe?”

“Sure,” Viktor says. “I work, remember? I can afford all sorts of things.”

(Not that he strictly needs to work in order to afford these things. But he has been informed—on multiple occasions, by multiple people—that he can come on a bit strong about all the money at his disposal, so he tones it down.)

“If you’re sure,” Yuuri says, clutching a pair of chinos to his chest. _He_ doesn’t look sure, but Viktor can work with that. In time, Yuuri will have all the confidence he could possibly desire.

They move on after that, from clothes to shoes and from shoes to accessories, and a gym bag for Yuuri to carry around his ballet gear. Yuuri is exhausted by the end of it, arms laden with shopping bags.

“Viktor, I can’t carry anything else,” he says. “We need to go home.”

“Not quite yet,” Viktor says. “There’s one more thing I want to buy for you.”

Yuuri narrows his eyes. “What?”

“We need to do something to get those 1998 *NSYNC bangs out of your eyes,” Viktor says. “So we’re getting you hair gel.”

“I _have_ hair gel already,” Yuuri says. “Ms. Baranovskaya makes us push our hair away from our faces to perform. I don’t want to walk around like that.”

“It’ll suit your new wardrobe more,” Viktor says. “Besides, all my friends have interesting hair. I don’t mean like the scene kids—that’s just criminal—but Chris bleaches his top layer, and Georgi uses gel too. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Yuuri sighs. He slumps down on the nearest surface, a ledge separating one part of the mall from another. “Being popular is a lot of work, huh?”

“It takes me fifteen minutes to braid my hair perfectly each morning,” Viktor says. “I’m sure you can manage sticking a few fingers in a pot of gel.”

If he’s coming off short, he doesn’t mean to. It’s for Yuuri’s own good that he’s doing all this. All the hours trekking around the mall, all the change and all the effort, it’s all done with a goal in sight. There’s a voice of insecurity at the back of Viktor’s mind, asking, _What if, after all of this, Yuuri doesn’t appreciate it? What if he’d be happier as a loser?_

He doesn’t have to wonder for long.

“You’re right,” Yuuri says, determined. “I can.”

“So, Monday morning,” Viktor says. “Will I see a new Yuuri?”

Yuuri pales, shrinking in on himself. “I—I don’t think so! Changing how I look isn’t going to change anything about me.”

That’s where he’s wrong—Viktor knows how much confidence comes from something so simple as feeling good about how you look. Maybe Yuuri lacks the confidence to make that connection in the first place, but Viktor is a very inspiring person, and he’ll have Yuuri charming crowds in no time.

Experimentally, Yuuri runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back flat, then letting it spring up, holding his hand in place. There’s something fluid about the movement—he is a dancer, after all. His lips twist in concentration and Viktor finds himself imitating the expression, appraising.

Maybe Yuuri is already charming people. He just doesn’t know it yet.

 

* * *

 

Monday morning comes, and Viktor gets in early for the second time that term, waiting at the school gates for his group to arrive. His _new_ group, the triple threats plus one.

Yuuri, predictably, is the first one there.

“Oh dear,” Viktor says, holding back a smile. “This won’t do.”

“What? Am I wearing anything wrong?”

He’s not—Yuuri is a flawless picture of style, his hair pushed back and his collar popped and cardigan, one of the few old pieces Viktor let him keep, slung over his shoulders. With the glasses, it’s sort of a “hot professor” look.

“You’re on time,” Viktor says, tapping his watch. “It’s always cooler to be fashionably late.”

“So why were you early?” Yuuri asks.

“Because I knew you would be,” Viktor says.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Yuuri says. “It’s too early for this.”

Viktor points a finger into his chest. “Aha! You admit that you’re early!”

Yuuri just rolls his eyes, walking past Viktor with his gym bag swaying beside him.

“Wait, wait!” Viktor calls. “We have to wait for the others. You didn’t think I’d let you become one of my friends without introducing you to my group, did you?”

“Should I just resign myself to this?” Yuuri does stop, though, leaning against one of the gate posts. “Your group—that’s your two friends from dance, right? Sara’s told me a little bit about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” Viktor says.

Yuuri shrugs, but the way he avoids eye contact tells a different story.

“Anyway,” Viktor continues, “they’re not just from dance. Me, Chris, and Georgi—we’re all triple threats. That means we dance, sing, _and_ act. Although I’m the best dancer, as you can probably tell from how well-proportioned I am.”

“Let me guess,” Yuuri says, “one of them’s the best singer, and the other’s the best actor.”

Viktor shakes his head. “Untrue. I’m the best _everything_.”

“Untrue!” Georgi launches himself on Viktor out of nowhere, thwacking him in the face with his own plait. “I, Georgi Popovich, am the _future_ of acting in Chawton, the pupil with the widest repertoire, the greatest memory, the most dramatic flair—”

He pauses, sharing a moment of awkward eye-contact with Yuuri.

“Viktor. What are you doing telling this nobody all about us?”

“Where did you even come from?” Viktor counters. “Georgi—this is Yuuri; Yuuri, this is Georgi. Yuuri is the newest member of our group.”

Georgi gives Yuuri a long, appraising look. “Not bad,” he says.

“Thank you,” Viktor says. “I picked his outfit myself.” He pushes Georgi off him and throws an arm around Yuuri. “Anyway, I’m still Yakov’s favourite pupil, so I’m the best actor. End of discussion.”

“I’m sure you’re both very good,” Yuuri says, gently prising Viktor’s arm off his shoulders.

Viktor is quietly impressed by how Yuuri’s handling himself. It can’t be easy to be flung into this situation and expected to suddenly become popular. It’s going to take more than the new wardrobe to make him the handsome prince of the junior year, but Viktor is confident it’ll happen.

(Apart from anything else, it means Yuuri will officially dethrone the self-declared “King” JJ, and Viktor would pay good money to witness that. By benefit of the fact that he’s hanging around seniors, Yuuri is already a step above JJ.)

It’s a few minutes longer before Chris arrives, and by then there are more students starting to come through the gates. Viktor is used to the way people stop and stare whenever they pass him—just one of the hazards of popularity—and saves his blinding smile for the very best dressed of them. Yuuri looks uncomfortable with the attention, but Viktor leaves him to it. He won’t get there with someone holding his hand the whole way.

Chris is enough of a distraction. He puts rest to the debate by saying, yes, Georgi is the best actor, but only because he can memorise Shakespeare’s monologues, whereas there was that time in freshman year when Viktor delivered his speech about immigration policy from yesterday’s sociology class in front of their drama class because he forgot what came after “to be or not to be,” and they’ll never let him live it down. And besides, Chris agrees with Yuuri that it gives them a nice symmetry, because he is _clearly_ the best singer.

“After all,” Chris says, “I can yodel over two octaves.”

“Tenors,” says Georgi, which means he’s including Viktor too, but Viktor doesn’t trouble himself getting offended.

“Yuuri, you don’t sing or act?” Chris asks. He leads the way as they walk onto school grounds. “You’re really missing out. You should take another performance elective.”

“I don’t know,” Yuuri says, shuffling behind them. “I’m nervous enough as it is when I perform ballet. I tried tap dancing once and spent the entire concert throwing up in the bathroom.”

“That’s a very uncool thing to admit to,” Viktor says.

Yuuri doesn’t respond.

He has ballet first period—Viktor walks him as far as the studio door; it’s out of the way from the math rooms, where he has first period, but it’s whatever. Sara’s waiting there, along with Mila and some other names that Viktor hasn’t bothered to learn.

“Hey, Yuuri,” Sara says, “you look…”

“… different,” Mila finishes. “Is everything alright?”

Viktor wraps an arm around Yuuri’s waist and pulls him close, showing him off. “Yuuri is cool now. Keep in mind who you’re talking to.”

The looks he receives in return could melt ice. He’s about to say something funny, lighten the situation, when a foot hits him square in the back and he topples forward. The only thing stopping his nose from breaking his fall is Yuuri pulling him back to his feet.

“You stay away from our studio,” says Russian Yuri.

“As small and angry as ever, I see,” Viktor says, acting like he hasn’t just been thrown completely off-balance—socially, too. “What have I done this time?”

“Whatever things are like here in America,” Yuri says, “they're not the same where we’re from. Don’t try to make us ‘cool’ or ‘uncool’ or whatever stupid little boxes you put yourselves into. Stay the fuck away from Yuuri.”

“Yura, stop it,” Yuuri says, in Russian. And then, in English, “Viktor and I are friends. If I want to be cool, that’s my business, not yours.”

Viktor’s heart grows at least a hundred sizes. Wherever this burst of confidence is coming from, this, _this_ is the Yuuri he saw so much promise in—his friend, his confidante.

Russian Yuri gives them both a disgusted look, but he doesn’t spare much more time before storming ahead into the dance studio and leaving a painful silence in his wake.

“If that’s all?” Yuuri says, looking between Viktor and his classmates. “I have to get changed.”

 _So cool_ , Viktor thinks.

“That’s all,” he says, even though it’s not—this is just the beginning.

 

* * *

 

One of the foremost privileges of popularity is the right to sit at a particular table in the cafeteria. It’s not any one table—the tables are all of the same vintage, completely indistinguishable from one another—but the table with the right _people_ at it, and that changes at the beginning of each year depending on where people stake their claims. This year’s table is far from the lunch line, at the glass wall looking out onto the school’s courtyard. It affords anyone privileged enough to sit at it the right to walk amongst the rest of the tables, balancing their tray with the grace of a dancer, while the masses watch in adoration.

It’s always the popular group in the senior year that claims the coolest of all tables, or rather, sets the table standard for the rest of the year. Everyone flocks around them, or keeps their distance, as befits their social status. Viktor is more than happy to enforce the hierarchy, reminding everyone that the table by the windows is _the_ table.

He sits on the table, feet on one of the benches, to make sure Yuuri knows exactly where to go. If he leans back, the end of his braid brushes the tabletop.

“Careful,” Chris says. “You’ll get food in your hair.”

“I work in a restaurant,” Viktor says. “I’ve had food in my hair before.”

Chris lets out a short laugh. “At school, though? It would be a disaster.”

Nothing Viktor does is ever a disaster, but if that’s what Chris wants to think, then Viktor will let him. Sometimes it can be reassuring to think of perfect people having cracks in their facades. Viktor is not an ancient statue, doesn’t ever show cracks—still, he doesn’t mind if people want to humanize him. It’s very hard to get on his level, after all, so what people think can’t possibly hurt him.

Anyway, Viktor isn’t really paying attention. His eyes are trained on Yuuri, getting food with Mila. He tracks Yuuri from the back of the line to the front, from there to when he steps away, sits down —

“Wait, Yuuri!” Viktor calls out, loud enough that everyone in the cafeteria can definitely hear him. “Come sit with us!”

Viktor’s distance eyesight is pretty good (or at least, it’s better than Yuuri’s) so he can very faintly make out the telltale signs of a blush forming on Yuuri’s face. And it does the trick—Yuuri says something to Mila and whoever else is at the table and then he gets up again and makes the long walk through the crowd. Viktor watches the eyes around the room, the faces that turn to follow Yuuri. It’s perfect. It’s artwork. Viktor could clap his hands in glee—except, he’s in public.

“So?” Georgi says, as Yuuri takes the seat next to where Viktor is resting his feet. “How was your first morning as one of the popular group?”

“Um, it was like all my other mornings,” Yuuri says. “Is it supposed to change everything immediately?”

“Not at all,” Viktor says, hopping off the table to sit down properly. “But everything _will_ change. Just give it time, Yuuri.” He nudges Yuuri’s knee with his under the table. “You’ll be brilliant.”

Yuuri ducks his head, a soft smile across his face. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

“Adorable,” Chris says. “You two are heartwarming. The real face of modern altruism.”

“Huh?” Yuuri looks up sharply. “What does that mean?”

“He’s just being weird,” Viktor says, glaring at Chris.

Georgi leans across the table. “Altruism,” he says, “is being kind for its own sake, according to the Nikiforov Dictionary.”

Smirking, Yuuri says, “Viktor isn’t just being kind to me because he likes the way it feels to be kind.”

It’s said with an amused inflection, but Viktor is caught off-guard by the truth behind his words, a truth that hadn’t even occurred to him. That is, of course, his primary motivation—altruism, the feeling that he’s doing something good for Yuuri by bringing him into popularity—but he wouldn’t be doing it in the first place if he didn’t genuinely care about Yuuri. That’s reassuring, that there’s more to his search for meaning than the meaning he ascribes it. A step in the right direction.

“You two had better be careful,” Yuuri continues primly. “Given time, I might outshine you both.”

A second later, he’s clutching at his chest and stammering out an apology—“I’m so sorry, I was just joking, really, please don’t take it personally,”—but it happened, the words were said, and nothing will take that moment away from Viktor for as long as he can keep it fresh in his mind.

It does stay with him. That evening, he’s at Crispino’s, distracted. His mind skips between thoughts, from the memory of Yuuri walking through the cafeteria like he owned it to the way restaurant lighting is a little dimmer than it would be in a normal room, and is that intentional? He drops his order pad halfway through talking a customer through the menu, not out of any clumsiness, but because his hands had simply forgotten that they were holding something. When the restaurant closes, the lights are turned up full but Viktor keeps missing spots as he wipes down the tables.

When gets to the edge of one table, he finds Sara sitting there.

“Are you planning on getting good at your job again any time soon?”

“Welcome to Crispino’s,” Viktor says. “What can I do for you today?”

Sara taps a finger against her lips. “Hmm. I want the special. Make it extra cheesy. And a soda. Do you do refills?”

“Sorry, we only offer free refills with group purchases.”

“Damn,” Sara says. “Next time I’ll bring a friend.”

“We define a group as three or more,” Viktor says.

“Two friends,” Sara says. She counts on her fingers. “Do I even _have_ two friends?”

Viktor rolls his eyes, tucking his cleaning cloth into the pocket of his apron. “Stupid question. Next.”

“Ah, I don’t know,” Sara says, “you seem convinced that everyone who’s not cool like you is totally friendless—”

“I never said _friendless_ —”

“—but you only have, like, two and a half friends,” Sara finishes. “What’s with that?”

“Okay, first of all, I have more than two and a half friends,” Viktor says—although, if he were pressed, he would say three. He doesn’t so much have _friends_ as he has people who talk to him, who respect him. He’s fine with that.

“Second?” Sara prompts.

“Second,” Viktor says, “I don’t think everyone who isn’t popular is friendless. That’s—it’s not the same thing.”

“Maybe you should explain it to me, then,” Sara says.

She’s clearly enjoying herself. Viktor decides he’ll gratify her. “Popularity sounds like it might be to do with how many friends you have, but it’s not. You can count the contacts on your cellphone or you can see how many people look up to you.”

“So it’s about being respected,” Sara says. “Seems kinda hard to quantify.”

“Well, it’s hard to get there in the first place,” Viktor says.

Sara gets to her feet, stretching her arms up above her head. “But you managed it.”

“I didn’t just manage it,” Viktor says. “I took it by storm and I redefined it.”

“Was that your definition or the original definition?” Sara asks, poking out her tongue at him. She’s on her way out; she undoes her apron at the back and slips it over her head. “No, don’t tell me—what you _actually_ redefined is what it takes to be respected. Did I get it right?”

“Perfectly,” Viktor says.

“Gee, it’s a wonder I got there so quickly,” she says, “since I’m so _unpopular_.”

Viktor knows she’s teasing, but something about it feels like a reproach. It’s not something he has time to dwell on—there are more tables waiting to be wiped down. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Sara turns to look back over her shoulder just for a second, long enough to throw her apron at Viktor. He catches it before it can hit him in the face.

“If your royal popularness allows it,” she says.

It’s easy, now, to draw on the distraction from earlier, to think about how it’s going to be: the cafeteria crowd parting as Viktor passes, Yuuri to his right, Chris and Georgi behind them. An air of mystique—whispers following them, rumours at their heels—and a need to get closer to find out—invitations to parties waiting in text messages on their cellphones. When he imagines it, how can Sara _not_ see the appeal?

 

* * *

 

Yuuri’s integration into the popular group is surprisingly smooth. He takes Viktor’s advice and moves closer to becoming a triple threat by picking up vocal technique with Mr. Cialdini and joining the show choir. Viktor’s never had time for choir himself—he’s much better as a soloist—but he enthusiastically supports Yuuri’s decision. For someone so shy, it’s a good opportunity to branch out while still blending into the background.

The thing about Yuuri is that he really is a born performer. The way he bears himself with confidence is enough to put JJ to shame—if only Yuuri could harness that confidence for more than a few seconds at a time.

“I’ve made so many new friends through show choir,” Yuuri tells Viktor.

It’s twilight, and they’re at the skate park with a supreme pizza and a liter of Coke between them. Viktor likes the silence of this place. The skaters don’t talk to each other, and the only noise is from their wheels scraping along the concrete, muffled and rhythmical.

“Not too many, I hope,” Viktor says.

Yuuri laughs, spitting out a bit of coke as he does. It’s very unbecoming. Viktor will work on that.

“Why, are you scared I’ll find a group of people who’re more fun than you?” Yuuri asks.

“No one is more fun than me,” Viktor says. “And as your guide and confidante, I must inform you that being in the show choir is alright, but it’s nowhere near as cool as being one of my friends.”

“I know, I know,” Yuuri says. “But it’s nice having people to help me to adjust. I haven’t done much singing before.”

“What section are you in?” Viktor asks.

“Second tenor,” Yuuri says. “I kind of wanted to be a bass, but my voice doesn’t go that deep. I don’t mind, though. The other second tenors are really nice. There’s Phichit and Seung-gil—they’re both juniors—although Seung-gil’s voice is dropping, so we think he’s going to be a first bass by the end of semester. Phichit is really cool, though.”

Viktor just smiles. It’s not so bad that Yuuri’s making other friends. They’ll all be seriously jealous of him.

“Say, Yuuri,” Viktor begins, “have you been to many parties?”

The skate park goes dead quiet for all five seconds before Yuuri answers. “Viktor, I went to a professional ballet school. Before I moved here, there was every chance that I’d graduate straight into the Bolshoi Ballet. That is _still_ an option when I graduate from here—do you think I’ve ever had time for parties?”

“That’s fine,” Viktor says, undaunted, “I’ll fix it in no time. Do you know JJ?”

Yuuri nods. “Who _doesn’t_ know JJ?”

“He hosts the biggest parties in Chawton,” Viktor says. “I don’t much care for him, but his parents let him do whatever he wants and they have a _big_ collection of wine.”

“I’ve never—” Yuuri pauses, lowering the slice of pizza he was about to eat. “I’ve never had alcohol. There weren’t really any opportunities, being at a boarding school.”

“Or perhaps you didn’t know the right people, the people who could show you the opportunities.”

“That too,” Yuuri says.

“Well, at least we know what to do about it,” Viktor says.

Yuuri’s mind must be elsewhere, maybe following his gaze into the distance. They eat in silence for a few minutes, watching the setting sun dip below the trees at the far side of the park. It’s peaceful, and Viktor’s done eating, so he turns his back to Yuuri and swivels so that he’s resting against Yuuri’s side. Everything with Chris and Georgi is such a big deal—not that it isn’t with Viktor too, but he likes having someone he can be relaxed around.

“I don’t know if I’m built for parties and popularity,” Yuuri says, very quietly. “I appreciate your good intentions, Viktor, but I don’t think any amount of nice clothes will make me something I’m not.”

“Oh, Yuuri—”

Viktor gets to his feet and puts his hands on his hips, standing in front of Yuuri. He imagines that he cuts quite an imposing figure, the dying sunlight at his back—more silhouette than man.

“Yuuri,” he says, “this is not about changing who you are. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

“Then what _is_ it about?” Yuuri asks.

Silence, again. Viktor isn’t sure he can answer that. What is it about? He’s still working that one out for himself. All he knows—now, in the moment—is that it feels good, and what can be truer than that? Again, the doubt sets in: does Yuuri feel the same way?

Viktor dispels that train of thinking before it can properly settle. “It’s about swallowing my pride and texting JJ,” he says, “and getting him to host another one of his parties as soon as humanly possible.”

 

* * *

 

“The trick to getting the most out of being drunk,” Chris says, “is to be a little less drunk than everyone else. That way, you can enjoy but also observe.”

“Disagree,” Georgi says. “Getting drunk is about forgetting why you were sad.”

“Why _are_ you sad?” Viktor chimes in.

“It’s a general example,” Georgi says. “Just go with it.”

“I find it easier to follow specific examples,” Yuuri says.

Georgi sighs, leaning back against Viktor’s bed frame. “Okay. Say you had a rough day at school. Maybe Ms. Baranovskaya yelled at you for something you thought you were doing really well. The trick, then, is to get drunk enough that you forget that you were sad _and_ why you were sad in the first place.”

“Well, you’re both wrong,” Viktor says. “There’s nothing more to it than having fun. Drinking as much as you’re comfortable with, and enjoying the night to the fullest.”

“’As much as you’re comfortable with’?” Chris laughs. “That is _rich_ , coming from the guy who regularly gets more drunk than he can handle and takes his shirt off and dances on tables.”

“Viktor!” Yuuri exclaims. “You _don’t_.”

“Like I said, it’s all about having fun,” Viktor says, flushing red. Somehow, Yuuri knowing about that—which happened _one time_ —is more embarrassing than the idea of the whole school finding out.

“Either way,” Georgi says, “you should be prepared for what it feels like, Yuuri. Which is why…”

With a flourish, he pulls a bottle of vodka from behind his back.

“Oh, no,” Yuuri says.

“Oh yes.” Georgi unscrews the bottle. “Just take a sip.”

“Vodka is disgusting,” Chris says, “so everything you try afterwards will taste incredible.”

Viktor nudges Yuuri. “He’s just saying that because his best friends are Russian and we all started on vodka. Don’t drink more than a tiny bit, okay?”

Yuuri nods. He brings the bottle up to his face, sniffing at it. “It smells like petrol.”

“There’s a lot of alcohol in vodka,” Viktor says. “Maybe just stick your tongue into the bottle neck.”

“Oh, yeah,” Chris says, “that’ll be good practice for—”

Viktor shoots him a warning look, and he stops.

Yuuri looks down the bottle neck with the other eye shut. He’s different without his glasses on. Viktor doesn’t know quite what it is, but it makes him look less vulnerable. He watches as, cautiously, Yuuri tips the bottle and lets a drop of vodka pool on his tongue.

“Ack,” he says, “that’s _bad_.”

“At least you’re not coughing and spluttering like I did on my first try,” Chris says reassuringly, slapping Yuuri on the back.

“I think I’ll leave that for now,” Yuuri says. “Wine will suit me just fine.”

The vodka is passed around to everyone but Chris, their designated driver—at least, on the way there. The way back will be the morning after, and Viktor will suck it up and sleep on one of JJ’s couches. Chris does complain about being designated driver and missing out on pre-drinks—in fact, Viktor can’t remember a party where he _hasn’t_ complained about being designated driver—but that’s his own fault for being the only one of them with a license. Georgi used to have one, but he got it revoked after a Disaster Day when he had an argument with his parents, drove away in a huff, and crashed his dad’s car into a tree.

(And Viktor isn’t a citizen or even a permanent resident—he can’t apply for a license, but he does know how to drive. He can’t risk getting caught, so he waits until summer and gets Chris to drive him halfway to the coast, and once they’re out of sight of civilization Viktor takes the wheel and lets his hair down until they hit the Atlantic.)

The only problem with Chris driving them everywhere is that he’s reckless to the point of showing off, taking sharp corners at twice the speed limit and and blazing through yellow lights. It’s Yuuri’s first time in Chris’s car, and he sits in the backseat with Georgi and lets out a yell whenever Chris does something illegal, his fingers gripping the headrest of Viktor’s seat.

After all that, they’re still late.

“No, no, we want to be late, remember?” Viktor reminds Yuuri.

“Besides,” Chris says, “if we were too early we would’ve been stuck talking to JJ.”

Yuuri laughs nervously. “I suppose so. Just let me stick with you, okay? I don’t want to be stuck talking to _anyone_.”

As Georgi slips into the crowd to find Anya, Chris slips an arm around Yuuri’s shoulder. “Come on, where’s all your legendary confidence?”

“I’ll get there,” Yuuri says, relaxing a little and letting Chris support him. “Maybe I should start drinking.”

It’s a very good idea. They weave their way further into the party and somewhere along the route they acquire a bottle of wine between the three of them. Viktor sticks to the sidelines and observes, as Yuuri discovers that wine tastes terrible too—but, well, at least it’s not vodka. This is Yuuri’s night, after all, his social debut. Viktor is happy to be there as support, keeping an ear out for gossip. He hears someone say, “That’s the junior who’s been hanging out with the triple threats,” and finds it hard to stop grinning after that.

The night begins to go downhill when Anya leaves. (She claims she has work tomorrow morning. Viktor thinks it might be an excuse.) Georgi is a sad drunk, and he parks his head on Viktor’s lap and doesn’t budge, whining about how lonely he is.

“It’s like, I’m not the same person without her around,” he says. “You get me, right, Vitya?”

“No, I don’t,” Viktor says shortly. “You need to stop being so dependent on her.”

Georgi hiccoughs, shifting. “She’s my _world_. I can’t imagine ever being with anyone else.”

“Maybe that’s your problem, then.” Viktor tries to push Georgi off him to no avail—he’s like giant sloth. “You’re an actor. A triple threat, Georgi. You’re supposed to have a better imagination than this.”

“It has nothing to do with imagination,” Georgi says. “I _love_ her, oh god, I—”

He can’t finish his sentence, bursting into loud, snotty sobbing.

If Georgi is a sad drunk and Chris is a keen, observant drunk, then Viktor is a fun drunk. But right now he’s just a bored drunk, watching Chris and Yuuri dancing while the remaining quarter of his friendship group lies around like a slob and weeps real tears onto Viktor’s Armani jeans because his girlfriend left the party early.

Yuuri, it seems, is a slutty drunk. Out there on the dancefloor—JJ’s back deck—he’s swinging his plastic cup in one hand and touching up Chris with the other, the two of them occasionally leaning in to shout something to each other over the sound of _I Believe In A Thing Called Love_. When the guitar solo hits, Viktor decides he’s had enough.

“Okay, Georgi, get up,” he says. “We’re going dancing.”

“Music can’t heal a broken heart,” Georgi says, but he gets to his feet, and lets Viktor haul him out to the backyard.

JJ has a pool too. Maybe if Georgi took a dunk in the ice-cold water he’d chill out a bit.

As the song changes to _Hey Ya!_ , Viktor insinuates himself in between Yuuri and Chris and drapes an arm over each of them. “Having fun, are we?”

“Viktor!” Yuuri drops his cup, and it goes rolling away somewhere into the throng. “You’re here!”

“I’ve been here all night,” Viktor says, amused. “I was busy babysitting Georgi.”

“You should have told me so,” Yuuri admonishes. “I can’t handle crowds on my own.”

“Clearly you can,” Viktor says. He turns to Chris. “How much has he had to drink?”

“Half a bottle, maybe,” Chris says, as Yuuri sways closer to Viktor and clings to him like a lifejacket.

It takes Viktor significantly more than half a bottle of wine from the Leroy collection to get anywhere near as drunk as Yuuri is. He’s almost jealous.

“Vitya, Vitya,” Yuuri says, and then, in Russian: “Dance with me, yes?”

Viktor is so surprised he nearly trips over his own feet—and he’s standing still. He’s heard Yuuri speak Russian before, but there’s something different about this, here, now. It takes him a few moments to respond.

“I’m already dancing with you,” he says.

“Stop speaking in code,” Chris says, stepping on Viktor’s toes.

“English is like code to me,” Viktor says. He laughs at the look on Chris’s face. “He wants me to dance with him. I told him I already am.”

“Okay,” Chris says, “while you two dance in Russian, I’ll get us more drinks, how about that?”

Viktor says yes, and he doesn’t remember much of the night after that. There is more dancing, more music, and more alcohol. Somewhere along the way, something must have been spiked, it’s so strong. Yuuri leads Viktor in a tango to _Objection_ and he and Chris take their shirts off when _Hot In Herre_ comes on. Viktor keeps his on, but he wishes he had a camera. Yuuri is almost better at the dirtier sort of dancing than Chris is—to be expected of a professionally-trained ballet dancer, Viktor supposes. Something sad starts playing, and Georgi’s off again. Yuuri tries to console him with an entire unopened bottle of 1987 Moet—where he found it is anyone’s guess—and in trying to open it, Georgi overbalances and falls into the pool, the expensive alcohol mingling with the water.

It all blurs together the next morning. Viktor wakes up on JJ’s couch with Georgi’s head resting on his chest, to the sound of JJ calling, “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!”

“I will kill him,” Georgi groans, unmoving.

Still, the eggs are as good a hangover cure as anything, even if they do have to listen to JJ boast about how often his parents are out of town. Isabella’s there too, hanging off JJ’s arm. Viktor watches them warily—he’s not comfortable around couples, let alone avert expressions of emotion.

It’s not as bad as Georgi and Anya, though. Georgi is back to normal now that he’s sober and sensible—as sensible as he ever gets—but the way he was acting last night weighs on Viktor’s mind. It’s unhealthy for someone to be so dependent, and it can’t be good in the long-term.

“How did you all enjoy the party?” JJ asks, his plate empty already.

“It was okay,” Chris says superciliously, which is all well and good for him to say—he and Yuuri slept on the beanbag, which must’ve been much more comfortable than the couch.

“You should be grateful that we seniors even bothered coming,” Viktor points out.

“Of course you’d come,” JJ says. “No one throws parties like JJ.”

That, and it had been at Viktor’s insistence—but JJ very kindly doesn’t mention that, because he must know that even if a senior tells him to throw a party, that’s no guarantee they’ll actually show up. Despite that, Viktor has a grudging respect for JJ and Isabella. They’re both triple threats, after all. He wonders if there might be some merit in getting them on Yuuri’s side.

Yuuri, for his part, has been quiet all morning. It must be a hangover, Viktor reasons. It makes sense—he’s unused to alcohol, and he did have a wild night. If Viktor was the life of the party, then Yuuri was the soul. His drunkenness was endearing. He carried himself with all the flair of someone truly _cool_.

Viktor realises he’s been zoning out. When he blinks back into the conversation, JJ is still going on about his spectacular hosting skills.

“—that’s JJ style for you,” he’s saying. “A touch of class.”

There is nothing classy about teenagers barfing in bushes, but whatever. “Say, JJ,” he says, “you’ll look out for Yuuri at school, won’t you?”

Yuuri snaps to attention at that. “Huh?”

“It’s hard to miss him,” Chris says. “You decked out his wardrobe so nicely, Viktor.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Viktor says. “I was just thinking… it’s all well and good that Yuuri has us as his best friends, but we’re seniors. He’ll need people to magnify his brilliance once we graduate.”

“You want to give me lackeys?” Yuuri almost chokes on his bacon.

“Such a loaded word,” Viktor says. “You need a _group_ , Yuuri. And it’s better that you spend your time with triple threats like JJ than the other ballet students.”

“Maybe they’d become cool just by being around me,” Yuuri says, a little bitterly.

“Also, I don’t appreciate being called a lackey,” JJ says. “I have my own crew, after all—the JJ girls!”

“That’s right, that’s right!” Isabella says, her arms around his shoulders. “Not everyone can have such devoted fans, you know.”

 _Couples_ , Viktor thinks. People tying themselves down at this age—it’s embarrassing. He looks at JJ and Isabella, and he cringes. He remembers Georgi last night.

“I don’t need you to look out for me, anyway,” Yuuri says to JJ. “I think Viktor is still drunk.”

Maybe there’s another way to be altruistic. Why should it stop at getting people together?

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Georgi says. “I think he drank the most out of all of us.”

What if—and this is the big question—what if Viktor could break people up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [playlist and notes](http://darkages.dreamwidth.org/835.html)


	3. Act 3

Viktor goes to Yakov’s house less and less than he used to since he moved out. He does miss it, the same way he misses fleeting sensory memories from his childhood—the smell of his aunt’s cooking, the cold weather on the day he first went ice skating at Red Square, the sounds of the plane that brought him from LED to JFK all those years ago—but he doesn’t miss any of these things enough to try to recreate them. So dinners at Yakov’s fall lower down the list, behind practice and parties, and Viktor starts eating pork and mixing his meat and milk.

“It’s been far too long,” Yakov says, not entirely chiding. “You should come around more often, Vitya.”

“I know, I know,” Viktor says. “It’s so hard to find the time, what with—”

Yakov gives him a look, and Viktor pipes down.

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

They’re ignoring the elephant in the room—well, not so much an elephant as Lilia there at the dining table with them, eating happily like there’s absolutely nothing weird about her presence. But Viktor can’t have a serious conversation around her. He doesn’t _want_ to.

“You’re a graceful dancer, Viktor,” Lilia says. “I saw you in the studio for contemporary the other day. You should consider taking up ballet again.”

The _other_ elephant in the room.

“I don’t think my body is suited to ballet anymore,” Viktor says, which is nonsense, because puberty isn’t done with him yet, but he can’t think of a better excuse.

“Nonsense,” Lilia says, seeing right through him. “You have a dancer’s body, and yet you waste it on this musical theatre business. Yakov tells me you haven’t danced ballet for some time. I don’t think it would be hard for you to pick it up again.”

 _That’s not_ me _anymore_ , Viktor wants to say. He doesn’t. Stubbornly, sullenly, he sticks his fork into a piece of brisket and stuffs the whole thing into his mouth. It’s bad table manners to talk with your mouth full, and Viktor doesn’t want to talk at all.

When he’s finished, they’re both looking at him expectantly.

“I have to go,” he says. There’s still food on his plate. “I have a lot of homework to do.”

“At least stay for dessert,” Yakov says.

Viktor hesitates. “Maybe some other time.”

Instead of going back to his apartment, he takes the long way ’round via the boarding house where the ballet students are staying. He’s been past a couple of times, but never without Yuuri. He takes care to make a quiet entrance so that Russian Yuri doesn’t catch wind of his arrival—the kid’s animosity hasn’t subsided, and right now Viktor isn’t in the mood to deal with it.

What he doesn’t expect is that—once he’s sweet-talked his way past the receptionist—the bedroom doors have whiteboards stuck to them with people’s names written on them, and it seems like there are two people to a room. Viktor stops dead in front of one that reads, in Yuuri’s unmistakable handwriting, _Yu(u)ri_ _2_ _!!! – Plisetsky and Katsuki_.

Viktor is feeling self-destructive. He knocks.

The door rockets open and Yuri Plisetsky is standing there, hands on his hips. “ _You_.”

“Hello,” Viktor says brightly, “I’ve come to kidnap your roommate!”

From inside, he hears some scuffling. “Huh? Viktor?”

“The one and the only,” Viktor says. “Yuuri, have you eaten? Let’s go out for dinner. My treat.”

Yuuri Katsuki appears behind Yuri Plisetsky, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but the other Yuri cuts in first: “They give us dinner for free here, moron.”

“I’ll give you a _better_ dinner for free,” Viktor says to Yuuri, winking. “Come on. Get dressed.”

Yuri shuts the door in his face.

Undeterred, Viktor leans across the opposite wall and waits. Sure enough, only a few minutes pass before Yuuri stumbles out, hair slicked back and glasses on skewed.

“Sorry about Yuri,” he says. “He’s still getting used to you.”

“That’s a funny way of putting it,” Viktor says, leading the way.

“Well,” Yuuri says—he doesn’t continue, just lets it hang between them. Then, “He thinks you’re messing me around. That you’re not really interested in being my friend and you’re only going to let me down. I don’t know. There’s a lot more cursing when he says it.”

Viktor manages a laugh. “You know he’s wrong. Right?”

“I know,” Yuuri says. “It’s—we’ve known each other for a long time, me and Yuri. He’s not usually this bad.”

“How long?” Viktor asks. “I mean, when did you move to Russia?”

“Ah.” Yuuri ducks his head. “When I was ten. It wasn’t so hard. My old ballet teacher came with me to help me settle in. I got used to being alone quickly enough after that. I didn’t make any friends for a while. I was older than everyone else in my class—Yuri, for one. He started at the same time as I did, so we were rivals at first. You can’t be someone’s rival for so long without becoming their friend, too.”

There’s so much Viktor doesn’t know about Yuuri. Why did his ballet teacher accompany him, and not his parents? Why Russia in the first place? Why did he end up in a more junior class? What’s his favourite film, his favourite colour? Viktor is yearning to ask all of this, but when he opens his mouth what comes out is, “There’s a Japanese restaurant on High Street!”

“I noticed it,” Yuuri says, “but I haven’t been in.”

“Let’s go there now,” Viktor decides. “What’s your favourite Japanese food?”

“My favourite of any food is katsudon,” Yuuri says. “It’s like—a bowl with crumbed pork cutlets and egg and rice.”

“Cutlets!” Viktor has never eaten that much pork in one go. There’s something wonderfully subversive about the idea. “I would love to try it.”

They end up in the restaurant until ten, trading stories about home—whatever that means to either of them. Yuuri complains that the katsudon isn’t as good as his mother’s, Viktor explains why he doesn’t generally eat pork. Yuuri tells him about Hasetsu, the tiny tourist town he grew up in, and how he started learning ballet. In turn, Viktor admits that he’s one of the reasons the old ballet teacher at the Academy quit, and that Lilia wants him to go back to it.

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” Yuuri says. “Yuri is a good friend, but you’re… you.”

“I _am_ me,” Viktor agrees, “and while I do instantly improve any situation with my very presence, ballet class just isn’t the place for me.”

Yuuri smiles, looking down into his empty katsudon bowl. “You belong on a different kind of stage.”

Viktor puts a hand to his chest. He’s glad Yuuri understands him. A confidante.

“You’re a really good friend to me, Yuuri,” Viktor says.

“You too,” Yuuri says, not meeting Viktor’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t hard to find Anya. She’s one of the drama class girls; there’s a big group of them, all impossibly well-dressed and sharp-tongued. That must be why Georgi likes her. Viktor doesn’t mind them either, but he doesn’t have much to do with them. Acting is his least-favorite elective—too many _personalities_.

Anya is one of those.

“You think I should _what_?”

“I’m worried about Georgi, that’s all,” Viktor says. “I think he’s becoming a little dependent on you. You should give him space.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to say _he_ should give _me_ space,” Anya says.

She is unimpressed. Viktor tries to be sympathetic, but really, he’s doing her a favour. She’ll work it out eventually.

“The thing about Georgi,” Viktor says, starting cautiously, “is that he’s a very sensitive, artistic soul. He overreacts to the smallest of things. For example, if, one day, you were to, say, find someone else, move on…”

Anya huffs. “It’s not that I’m _planning_ to break up with him. He knows we’re not forever. It’s like, when you’re in high school, you have a sweetheart. You date someone else in college. It’s whatever.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Viktor says. He’s saving Georgi more trouble than he knows.

“What, he’s planning on proposing to me, or something?” Anya laughs. “Don’t be silly.”

“I don’t know about anything like that,” Viktor says, “but he definitely thinks you’re ‘forever.’”

“So you think I should break up with him before he gets the wrong idea,” Anya says. She’s clearly taking it seriously now, one perfectly polished fingertip to her lip in contemplation. “Fine. I’ll consider it.”

Her body language says she’s already made up her mind. Another victory! Altruism is a truly powerful feeling. Georgi will be free of Anya—and all of his sadness—and Viktor will be free of Georgi’s constant moping. Everyone wins.

That makes Viktor think—what should he do next? He’s made someone popular, from scratch. He’s brought one couple together. Soon he’ll have broken up another. He needs a new project, and fast.

Well, to keep his mind off it for now, he’s made plans. The ballet students are giving this week’s recital. It’s a Friday afternoon tradition at Chawton Performing Arts Academy, and frankly, Viktor’s surprised the slot wasn’t given to the ballet students sooner. Lilia is trying to get him to join the ballet class. She’s trying to get a lot of people to join the ballet class. Even Georgi has received an invitation, which, naturally, he’s turned down. (Chris hasn’t got one. He seems annoyed about that—but why would he be? It’s a blessing to be left alone.)

Viktor doesn’t make a habit of going to Friday afternoon recitals unless he’s performing in them. He would usually skip the show choir’s recitals, but now that Yuuri’s in the choir it’s practically an obligation for Viktor to attend, as moral support. There’s one in a few weeks that’s already pencilled into his calendar. This Friday, though, it’s the ballet class, and Yuuri doesn’t need moral support for ballet. Viktor is hell-bent on supporting him anyway.

He meets Georgi and Chris out the back of the school hall.

“I don’t know,” Georgi says. “Going in there means there’s every chance Ms. Baranovskaya will look me in the eye and give me the ‘join ballet, Georgi’ face. I don’t think I’m ready to face that again.”

Chris slaps him on the back. “We believe in you.”

“Don’t you guys want to see Yuuri in action?” Viktor asks. “I bet he’s really good.”

“Duh,” Chris says. “He’s one of Ms. Baranovskaya’s prodigies.”

“Exactly!” Viktor says.

Georgi just rolls his eyes, but he follows them in. They find a seat near the back—cool kids don’t sit at the front of the hall—and Viktor makes sure there’s no one in front of him so he can stick his legs up on the headrest, one crossed over the other.

The show starts with some of the younger ballerinas taking to the stage. Viktor counts more than ten dancers on stage. Lilia was more successful than he realised. He also notices Sara with them. Isn’t she embarrassed to be a beginner, dancing with the freshmen? The closer Viktor looks, the more older students he recognises. They dance well, not that Viktor would tell them that. If Sara asks, he’ll say he wasn’t paying that much attention.

Chris yawns conspicuously, and Georgi has enough sense to jab him in the ribs.

“What?” Chris says. “Don’t tell me that after all that, you’re actually _enjoying_ yourself.”

“Dance is art,” Georgi says, a reverent whisper, “and art is always worthy my time.”

“Contemporary is still better than ballet,” Chris says.

Viktor is about to say something in agreement when the dancers clear the stage and the music changes abruptly into a minor key. Four new dancers come on, dressed in simple blacks that give them a surprisingly sinister look. Or maybe it’s the way they’re moving with weaponised poise, dangerous grace. The distinction is clear already: these are the students at the top of the class.

In Viktor’s eyes, Yuuri is at the forefront of this elite group. Mila is there, and Yuri Plisetsky, and a girl who Viktor doesn’t know. Yuri Plisetsky lifts her above his head, but his arms are straining. He’s still young. Yuuri—Viktor’s Yuuri, and, as far as he’s concerned, the original and the best—is older, stronger, and lifts Mila with confidence. He jumps higher than the other three, spins faster, lands more gracefully. He responds to the music like it’s another limb connected to his body.

When the dance finishes, Viktor realises that he’s taken his legs off the seat in front, and his chin is resting in his hands, elbows on his knees to prop him up.

“Thinking about going back to ballet?” Chris asks, teasing.

“No!” Viktor says, too quickly. “No, I just—they’re good.”

“Good is an understatement,” Georgi says, and when Viktor looks back he sees Georgi wiping a tear from his eye. “They were _beautiful_.”

Out of the goodness of his heart—altruism again—Viktor hangs around backstage after the hall has cleared out. He finds Yuri Plisetsky first. Yuuri won’t mind waiting.

“Hey,” Viktor says. “Hey, Yuri—I’m talking to you.”

“Why?” Yuri gives Viktor a flat stare. “Katsuki is still in the dressing room.”

“Let me rephrase that,” Viktor says. “I am here specifically to talk to you. I wanted to—congratulate you, actually. You danced really well out there. You need to work on your arm strength, though. And your feet were sloppy when you jumped. If you—”

“Shut up!” Yuri snaps. “What the fuck do you know?”

Viktor smirks. “I used to take ballet classes. It’s been less than a year since I quit. You don’t just forget these things.”

“Whatever,” Yuri says. “Don’t go thinking you have any advice to give me.”

“I don’t want to be your enemy,” Viktor says.

“Then stay away from me,” Yuri says, without any real venom.

He stalks off. Viktor watches him retreat with a sense of optimism. They’re definitely getting somewhere. By the end of the semester they’ll look back on this and laugh about it. Viktor wouldn’t have got where he is without a knack for turning enemies into friends.

“Um, Viktor?”

“Ah, Yuuri!” Viktor spins around to see Yuuri standing behind him, changed back into jeans and one of the polos Viktor bought him. “Just the person I was looking for!”

Yuuri seems to relax. “Did you enjoy the recital?”

“Did I—” Viktor stops, shaking his head. “Yuuri, did I _enjoy_ it? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Oh, come on,” Yuuri says. “I’m not that good. Everyone else is miles ahead of me.”

Is he joking? Viktor’s been dancing all his life, so he’s confident that he knows a thing or two about it. He’s never seen anyone quite like Yuuri.

“You’re wrong,” is all Viktor can say. “You’re wrong. Well—we can argue about this over katsudon.”

Yuuri squares his shoulders. “I can’t go out for dinner tonight, Viktor. I can’t afford it. And… I can’t keep letting you pay for me. It’s embarrassing.”

“I don’t understand,” Viktor says.

“Don’t sound so helpless about it,” Yuuri says. “I’m my own person. I can come to your place after dinner. Do you still have that bottle of vodka?”

 

* * *

 

“I’ve done so many good deeds today,” Viktor says, pouring himself another shot. “I came to your recital, even though I _never_ go to recitals. And I gave tiny Yuri some advice on his performance.”

Yuuri takes the bottle from Viktor. “Tiny Yuri? Plisetsky?”

“Right, right,” Viktor says. “We’re almost friends now!”

“Over dinner he called you a ‘meddling piece of shit walking corpse,’” Yuuri says, switching to Russian halfway. Back in English, he adds, “I think that means he likes you.”

Viktor downs his shot and grins. “Brilliant! There’s nothing I can’t do if I put my mind to it. Do you know what else I did today? I convinced Anya to break up with Georgi!”

Yuuri goes quiet. He takes his glasses off and turns them between his fingers. “You—Viktor, that’s a _bad_ thing. That’s not altruism.”

“He’s too dependent on her,” Viktor says. “You weren’t around when she left the party at JJ’s. He couldn’t stop crying. When she’s not around, he becomes half the person he is when she is. That’s unhealthy.”

“Okay, it is, but if she makes him happy—”

“And she was open about it, that they’re not going to be together forever,” Viktor goes on. “She said she’ll date someone different in college. She was definitely already planning to break up with him. Maybe even as soon as next semester. Oh, sure, Georgi will be sad about it for a while, but the sooner he gets over it the better!”

“I still feel bad for him,” Yuuri says.

Viktor shrugs. “Couples. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” Yuuri says. “I’ve, uh, obviously never dated anyone.”

“Oh, neither have I,” Viktor says. “I don’t think it’s responsible for people our age to have serious relationships. It’s so boring, you know? We’re young! We need to have fun!”

“Somehow, that surprises me,” Yuuri says.

“Why?” Viktor asks. “You think I want to be tied down?”

“Maybe that’s not the best way to put it,” Yuuri says. “But—ah, I just thought, someone as popular as you…”

Viktor hums. “It’s true that popular people dating other popular people is a good way to become even more popular. I’m popular enough that I don’t need to do that! But if you want to date someone, then—”

“No, no!” Yuuri says, too quickly. “I don’t want to date anyone!”

“Sounds to me like you’re covering up for something,” Viktor says, leaning across to get a closer look at Yuuri. “You’re blushing! You like someone, don’t you?”

“Definitely not,” Yuuri says. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Not until you tell me who you like,” Viktor says. He wags a finger in Yuuri’s face. “Is it someone popular?”

“Um,” Yuuri says.

“Someone unpopular? That’s okay, you know. You can tell me, I won’t judge.”

Yuuri pushes Viktor’s hand away. “Viktor, I—”

Viktor leans in closer. “Yes?”

“I like Phichit,” Yuuri blurts. His face is red. “I don’t… I don’t like to talk about it. Since, you know. I’m gay.”

Viktor is a little tipsy—that’s beginning to register—but he tries for his most reassuring smile. “Me too,” he says. “I don’t have to date anyone to know what I’m into.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri stammers. “I mean, for understanding. For being like me. I don’t know. For being my friend.”

“So,” Viktor says, avoiding the obvious emotional response, “who’s Phichit?”

Yuuri shoves Viktor’s shoulder. “For real? Viktor, I told you about him. He’s one of the other second tenors in the show choir.”

“Oh, right,” Viktor says. He hums. “Not very cool, is he?”

“I think he’s cool,” Yuuri says.

“Seems to me like you’re a little biased,” Viktor says. “Don’t worry. You can like whoever you want. But while you’re popular, you should date someone equally popular.”

Yuuri shrugs. “I don’t know anyone as popular as you,” he says.

“True,” Viktor says. “Well, I’ll think about it. I’ve got your back, Yuuri!”

After all, Viktor has only played matchmaker to one couple. His altruism has a long way to go. Setting Yuuri up with someone would be good for him. Give him a little bit of experience. Phichit… well, Viktor will have to think about that. He doesn’t even know what Phichit looks like. Maybe he’s cool enough, but more likely, Yuuri can do better.

The conversation doesn’t stray back down that path. They spend the rest of the night talking about other things, insignificant things, things that don’t matter because, between them, they’ve reached an understanding. It’s two in the morning before Viktor falls asleep—Yuuri has long since passed out, curled up beside Viktor on his king single. Viktor keeps himself awake by text messaging Chris, but eventually even Chris stops replying. The quiet of the night buzzes in Viktor’s ears leaving him drunk and unsteady. He sleeps.

He wakes up with Yuuri by his side, one hand flung over his eyes to shield them from the light that comes in through Viktor’s blinds. The morning has already begun, judging by the sound of cars on the street outside. Viktor’s working tonight. For now, he wants to keep sleeping.

“Yuuri.” So tranquil. Yuuri is a different person this early in the morning, his hair messy and his shirt rumpled. Viktor prods at Yuuri’s shoulder, trying to get him to stir. “ _Yuu_ ri.”

“Ugh. Viktor. Don’t.”

“Let’s go to the skate park,” Viktor says. “Let’s get katsudon for breakfast. Not in that order.”

Yuuri rolls onto his side, pressing his forehead against the wall. “Tired.”

“I’ll leave you alone after that,” Viktor says, “I promise. Just keep me company a little longer?”

That’s what friendship is about, after all.

 

* * *

 

Mila is at Crispino’s when Viktor arrives. In a Crispino’s apron. Viktor stands immobile for a second, trying to work out what alternate reality he’s stepped into. One where Mila works at Crispino’s. One where Sara is a ballet student.

“Oh, hey, Viktor,” Mila says. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” Viktor says, even though his shift doesn’t start for another five minutes, and what is she talking about?

“Well, go and get changed,” Mila says.

“Yeah,” Viktor says. Apparently he can’t form sentences any longer than one word.

Sara is out the back getting changed too. Viktor doesn’t ask—he gets her to put his hair in a bun and remains quietly contemplative. It’s not like working at Crispino’s was ever a _cool_ thing to do, but…

Well, Viktor has always liked surprises. And he’s never liked change that he can’t control. Usually, he doesn’t have to reconcile those two contradictory facts. It’s not about Mila. He doesn’t mind Mila. This is the moment where he realises that something’s off, and she is the catalyst. Really, it’s about something different entirely. He just wishes he knew what.

The first half of his shift goes by in a blur. It’s lucky that Viktor’s worked at Crispino’s for so long. He knows the ropes, and he knows the regular customers. Some orders, he doesn’t even need to ask. The regulars are duly impressed.

(Maybe it’s that it’s only October, and already the Russian ballet students are as much a part of everyone else’s lives as they are Viktor’s.)

At about half-seven, Georgi and Anya walk in. Viktor loses heart—if Anya had ever entertained the idea of breaking up with him, it’s clear now that she’s decided against it. Her arm is looped through his. They look happy.

(Maybe it’s that Viktor thought he was onto something special with Yuuri, and with his altruism, and with this seismic shift that he thought was of his _own_ making, but which is actually just another bit of change he can’t control.)

Mila is all chatty to the customers. They seem to really like her. Viktor passes through the seven—or however many—stages of grief in all of ten seconds. He wonders if he’s really charismatic, or if he’s been kidding himself all these years. If he’s all he’s made himself out to be.

(Maybe it’s that Viktor’s search for meaning hasn’t given him any meaning at all, not yet. Maybe it’s that there’s _more_ he needs to be doing.)

His mood is interrupted all of a sudden by a loud wail cutting through the restaurant. Viktor is behind the till at the time, back to the tables, and he turns around so fast his hair falls loose from its bun. It’s Georgi—it couldn’t possibly be anyone else—and Viktor’s sullen mouth splits into a grin. He forgets all about his existential crisis. Georgi has his head in his hands, and his shoulders are shaking.

The wail is followed by a shout: “You’re breaking up with me?”

By now, everyone in the restaurant has turned to watch. Viktor is hit by a wave of nausea. His grin fades fast. This was supposed to feel good. This was meant to be altruism. Instead, Viktor is standing helpless with only his order pad as a shield, watching his oldest friend cry in public.

“It’s not like it was never going to happen,” Anya says evenly. “I didn’t want you thinking we were forever, Georgi, when that’s not the case.”

Georgi doesn’t respond—his whole body is wracked by the same melodramatic sobs which he can emulate at the drop of a hat, the culmination of a lifetime of acting classes. But this is real, painfully real.

Viktor turns away.

“Can we ask them to leave?” he says to Sara, under his breath.

“I’d rather give him a meal for free,” Sara says. “Oh god. This is bad. Poor Georgi.”

“Yeah,” Viktor says, looking at his feet.

It’s a moment of pain for a lifetime of reprieve. Viktor tells himself it’s best for Georgi in the long run. The sooner Georgi learns to let go, the better. Yeah. Georgi will be fine.

Probably.

The evening thoroughly ruined, Viktor leaves Crispino’s with a sour taste in his mouth. He doesn’t want to go back home. He wants to get on a train and ditch town forever. Chawton to Manhattan. He could do it, but he’s too much of a coward. Instead, he wanders aimlessly, walking along streets he’s never been down before, winding through the suburbs, taking the long route home.

He ends up in front of Yakov’s house.

Viktor rings the doorbell. He waits a few minutes—the lights are on, but no one is answering. Viktor runs his fingers through his hair. This is a bad idea. Then, a shadow appears through the glass panes set into the door.

It’s Lilia.

“Ah,” Viktor says, caught off guard, “I was hoping to speak to—”

“Yasha,” Lilia calls out, “your godson is here!”

Yakov comes to the door grumbling. “‘Godson,’ she calls you, what kind of gentile—never met anyone so godless in my entire life— _Vitya_.”

Viktor forces a smile. “Hi, Yakov.”

“What are you doing here?” Yakov asks. “It’s almost eleven.”

“Is it?” Viktor looks down at his wrist, but there’s nothing there—he doesn’t wear his watch when he’s working. There’s a clock on the wall at Crispino’s.

“It is.” Yakov does not look amused. “Are you coming in or do you plan on standing on my porch all night?”

“I’m coming in,” Viktor says. “Sorry for leaving dinner so early the other night. Maybe I can make it up now.”

“At _eleven_ ,” Yakov says, but he steps aside to let Viktor out of the growing cold.

It’s calm inside. Slowly, in front of the TV with Yakov and a cup of hot chocolate, it calms Viktor’s mind too. “Yakov,” he asks, “do you think it’s ever justifiable to do a bad thing if you know it will lead to something good in the end?”

“Do I get to know what this is about?” Yakov asks.

“No,” Viktor says stubbornly. “I’m just asking. For a friend.”

Yakov snorts. He leans forward to pick up the TV remote, turning it down. “Vitya, if you’ve done something stupid, I have a right to know.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Viktor says. “Do you… do you think it’s okay? To do something like that?”

“Everything depends on context,” Yakov says. “But don’t get a head for meddling. I know you sent those flowers to Lilia.”

Viktor is taken aback for all of a second. “I guess it was kind of obvious that it was me,” he says.

“She hasn’t worked it out, and she never will,” Yakov says. “You’re really not going to tell me what you’ve done? It’s nothing illegal, is it?”

“No, no, nothing illegal,” Viktor says. “I was trying to do right by a friend. I’m worried it went wrong.”

“I don’t know what I can tell you,” Yakov says. “I’m not your fucking rabbi.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and Viktor is surprised by his language—Yakov has _never_ sworn in front of him before—but then Yakov barks out a laugh, and after a beat Viktor laughs with him.

“Okay, point taken,” he says. “Thank you for letting me talk about it.”

Yeah. Viktor feels better after that.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s Georgi?” Chris asks at lunch. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

“You didn’t hear?” Yuuri says, shooting Viktor a look. “Anya broke up with him on Saturday night. In _public_.”

“Whoa,” Chris says.

“That’s right!” Viktor says. “I was there. I was on my shift at Crispino’s. When they came in they looked really happy, and then all of a sudden Georgi was crying. It was kinda scary.”

Yuuri nods solemnly. “I thought we could go visit him after school. Well—after show choir, for me.”

“Oh, you’re still in the show choir?” Chris asks, raising an eyebrow. “How’s that treating you?”

“It’s great, actually,” Yuuri says. There’s a note of prideful venom in his voice. “I’m the coolest person there, so naturally I’ve made lots of friends.”

Chris stifles a laugh. “Friends, or—what was your word—or lackeys?”

“Friends,” Yuuri says firmly.

Viktor follows Yuuri to show choir that afternoon. Apart from anything else, he wants to meet the elusive Phichit. Yuuri’s _crush_. It’s strange to think of Yuuri having a crush on anyone. Then again, it presents Viktor with an opportunity. After how badly he botched things with Georgi and Anya—it’ll pay off in the long run, it’ll be fine, Georgi will be fine—it feels like a matter of utmost urgency that he gets his altruism back on track. Setting Yuuri up with someone, getting him kissed, would be a real act of kindness.

Yuuri isn’t too pleased with Viktor at the moment, though. “It’s your fault,” he says, “that Anya dumped Georgi.”

“Hey,” Viktor says, putting his hands out defensively, “I didn’t know she was going to break up with him in public. I’ll admit it—maybe my timing was off. But it’s better that Georgi cuts himself loose now than get his heart broken later.”

“He didn’t _cut himself loose_ ,” Yuuri says. “He was _dumped_.”

“No need to sound so angry about it,” Viktor says, amused despite his better judgement.

“Of _course_ I’m angry,” Yuuri says. “Georgi is my friend too, you know.”

Of course—Yuuri is one of them now. Cool, popular, all the rest. He has every right to be just as invested in Georgi’s happiness as Viktor is. That doesn’t stop it from being weird, though.

“It won’t happen again,” Viktor says.

Yuuri laughs, short and breathy. “I hope not.”

They reach the music room where the show choir practices. There are a group of students milling around outside, and Yuuri waves them down as soon as he’s in sight.

“Phichit! Seung-gil!”

One of the students jumps up and waves back. “Hey, hey, Yuuri, check it out! Seung-gil has Snake in _color_ on his phone.”

So this is Phichit.

“In color?” Yuuri leans over Seung-gil’s shoulder. “No way. Your snake is so long!”

Viktor’s not really interested in video games, so he hangs back. Phichit watches Yuuri and Seung-gil play for a bit, but then he turns to Viktor, regarding him curiously.

“I’m not joining show choir,” Viktor says, “if that’s what you were thinking.”

“I wasn’t,” Phichit says. “You’re Viktor, right?”

“Who else would I be?”

Phichit does not laugh, but he does smile wickedly. “Yuuri talks about you, like, literally all the time. You’re his favourite.”

“Phichit,” Yuuri hisses, looking away from Seung-gil’s cellphone. “Don’t say that.”

“What? It’s true.” Phichit shrugs. “Yuuri’s like, the coolest person I’ve ever spoken to. Not that it really means anything? I’m still, like, getting my head around the whole cool-slash-uncool dichotomy.”

“None of that matters in show choir,” Seung-gil says. He doesn’t look up from his phone.

“Right,” Viktor says, “you’re all—”

— _losers_ , he’s about to say, but Yuuri steps on his toes, and Viktor squawks instead.

“Ow, Yuuri!”

“Oh my god, cute,” Phichit says. “I wish I could step on a popular person’s toes and not get, like, beaten up or something. Do people get beaten up here? I only moved to Chawton this year.”

“People don’t get beaten up,” Seung-gil says. “They just get ignored if they don’t reach some arbitrary standard of _cool_. There’s no proper metric to decide who’s cool and who’s not. It’s a waste of time.”

“You’re so right,” Phichit says. “Yuuri, I’ve decided you’re a loser now. Sorry. You can’t hang out with Viktor and the plastics anymore.”

“Um, wow,” Viktor says. The _plastics_? He’s almost offended. Scratch that—he _is_ offended. He put so much pure, altruistic effort into making Yuuri as cool as he is. “I changed my mind, Yuuri.”

“About what?” Yuuri asks, too amused to be taking this seriously.

“About everything,” Viktor says. “You’re on your own. I’ll see you after, when we go to Georgi’s.”

He doesn’t look back. This has made up his mind—Phichit seems nice, but he’s not what Yuuri needs right now. He’s charming, and with that charm he could all too easily drag Yuuri back into the humdrum of being a normal person, the kind of student who blends into the background. Yes, it’s for the best that Viktor finds a way to divert Yuuri’s crush before it gets out of hand.

There’s a quiet spot under a tree outside the music rooms. All the music rooms at the Academy are soundproofed, so Viktor is spared the caterwauling of the show choir. He texts Chris to come meet up—Chris likes to keep him waiting, though.

“Fashionably late,” Viktor says.

“It was your idea to follow Yuuri to show choir,” Chris says, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t want to be anywhere near that shit.”

“You’re right,” Viktor says. “I think it’s bad for Yuuri. No one there cares about social status. It’s _weird_.”

“I tried to warn you,” Chris says.

“Did not,” Viktor says, sticking out his tongue. “Anyway, we need to start doing right by Yuuri again. I think we’ve let our altruistic work go slack.”

Chris frowns. “ _Your_ altruistic work. Speaking of which… Georgi and Anya? Was that your doing?”

“Ah,” Viktor says, “why should that matter? What’s done is done.”

“It was you,” Chris says. “I knew it. Yuuri gave you this _look_ when we spoke about it at lunch. Oh man, I knew it.”

“I’m not exactly proud of how it happened,” Viktor says. “It was. It was going to happen eventually. That’s all.”

“I don’t really care,” Chris says. “But if he’s moping when we get to his place—if he’s crying, if he’s listening to emo—I am blaming you for the rest of your goddamn life.”

“Okay,” Viktor says, “that’s fair. I guess.”

They sit in companionable quiet until show choir lets out, and Yuuri breaks off from Phichit and Seung-gil to join Viktor and Chris.

“Took you long enough,” Chris says. “Try not to get stuck with that group too often.”

“Not you too,” Yuuri says. “Viktor doesn’t—”

“You can hang out with whoever you want,” Viktor says magnanimously. “Just not them.”

Chris puts an arm around Yuuri’s shoulder. “You can do better. I know it.”

“I don’t appreciate this particular flavor of altruism,” Yuuri says, but he doesn’t move to push Chris away.

Well, that’s interesting. Chris laughs, pulling Yuuri closer. An idea begins to form in Viktor’s head. He can’t tear Yuuri away from the show choir—that much is evident—but he _can_ give Yuuri a reason not to focus on his crush on Phichit. What was it Yuuri had said? That there was no one popular enough for him to date, no one outside of their group. Obviously Viktor is out of the question, since he doesn’t date. And Georgi is recovering from a break-up.

Chris, on the other hand…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [playlist and notes](http://darkages.dreamwidth.org/1771.html)


	4. Act 4

They’re not even halfway down the street to Georgi’s when they hear the music, blaring loud from his bedroom like a police siren at the scene of a crime.

“He’ll be _fine_ ,” Viktor says, and both Yuuri and Chris look at him like he’s crazy.

Georgi’s mom opens the door for them. “Oh, Vitya, I’m so glad to see you,” she says. “Gosha’s been shut up in his room all day. He won’t even tell me what’s wrong.”

“Not to worry, Mrs. Popovich!” Viktor says. “We’re here to cheer him up.”

“Come in, come in,” she says, ushering them past her. “I’ll be up in a minute with some snacks for you boys.”

Yuuri hasn’t been to Georgi’s place before, so now he looks around curiously, lingering behind Viktor and Chris. Viktor takes it slowly too, because it’s his fault Georgi is like this, and they all know it.

All of them except Georgi.

The music is unbearably loud when they’re outside his room. Viktor makes the executive decision that they should just barge in, and the first thing he does is turn off the CD player.

“Ugh,” Chris says. “Was that Evanescence?”

Georgi is face down on his bed, and Viktor can see tear tracks on his pillow. This is bad. What happened to all his skill with altruism? Now, more than ever, Viktor needs to use his powers for good, to make Georgi happy again.

He sits down on the edge of the bed. “Hey, Georgi.”

“Amy Lee,” Georgi chokes out, “is the only person who understands my feelings.”

“That’s not true,” Viktor says. “You’ve got us. You’ll always have us.”

“What’s it worth without Anya?” Georgi says, between his sobs.

“Okay,” Chris says, “time for a more aggressive approach. Georgi, we’re staging an intervention. If you don’t—”

“Chris,” Yuuri warns, “maybe now is not the time.”

Georgi confirms this by sobbing harder.

“There, there,” Viktor says, patting him on the arm. “Say, Georgi, it’s almost Halloween…”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Georgi asks, turning his head so his voice isn’t as muffled as before.

“Isn’t it your favorite? You wouldn’t want to be sad on Halloween, now, would you?” Viktor says. “Picture this: all of us dressed up at JJ’s Halloween party, having the time of our lives, and you in the corner crying like the sad witch of the west.”

Georgi stills. “JJ’s hosting a Halloween party?”

“I don’t know,” Viktor says. Then, a brainwave: “You should host one, Georgi. Anything you do is sure to be better than whatever JJ could scrape together. Plus, if you focus on organization, it might take your mind off Anya.”

“That’s a great idea,” Yuuri says. “I’ve—I’ve always wanted to go to a costume party.”

“We could get our costumes from the acting department,” Chris suggests.

Viktor shakes Georgi’s shoulder. “See? The script writes itself.”

“I’m not going to stop thinking about her just because you tell me to,” Georgi says, rolling over.

“Of course not, and we wouldn’t expect you to,” Viktor says. “But Georgi—we’re here for you.”

And he means it—Viktor would climb mountains for Georgi. It’s not a revelation Viktor expects to have on a Monday afternoon while Georgi is all spread out on his bed, his face puffy and streaked with tears. But when it comes to altruism, his friends are always going to be his first priority.

“Ah,” Yuuri says, looking at his watch, “I should head back. It’s nearly dinner time at the boarding house.”

“Chris, walk him to the bus stop,” Viktor says. It’s an opportunity. “There’s something I want to talk to Georgi about.”

Yuuri and Chris exchange a glance—they both know better than to question Viktor on something like this. Viktor peers through the blinds once they’re going, watching until they’re a suitable way down the street.

“What’s all this about?” Georgi asks.

“Okay, listen,” Viktor says, turning around. “Don’t you think there’s something there?”

Georgi narrows his eyes. “Something _where_?”

“Chris and Yuuri,” Viktor says. “They would make a good couple.”

“This is the altruism thing, isn’t it,” Georgi says.

“Right! Setting people up… it gives me a lot of joy. And since you need some joy in your life, Georgi, maybe you want to help me with this one?”

Shrugging, Georgi says, “I don’t really see the chemistry.”

“Well, it might be a little one-sided for now,” Viktor admits. “Yuuri likes someone else.”

“No shit,” Georgi says.

“But I think Chris _definitely_ sees something in him, so I don’t think it will take much to bring Yuuri around.” Viktor shifts closer to Georgi and whispers, “Don’t you want to do something good for someone else?”

“It’s not going to get me over Anya, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Georgi says.

Viktor rubs the back of his head. “You can’t fault me for trying.”

“No, I can’t,” Georgi says, softening. “I guess I’m not going to stop you.”

When Chris gets back, the three of them end up staying at Georgi’s for dinner. It’s the first time Georgi’s been out of his room since he got home on Saturday night, so his parents insist that the responsible parties continue to keep him out for as long as possible. Georgi still isn’t smiling much, but it’s an improvement. He even talks to his parents about a possible Halloween party. They agree immediately—it’s probably the fact that he’s talking at all.

There are no details to cover, no loose ends left to tie in knots, as far as Viktor’s concerned. This is the end of his—what did Yakov call it?—his _meddling_ in Georgi’s life. Except—

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” Chris asks. They’re waiting at the bus stop, well out of earshot. “I thought when you sent me and Yuuri away you were going to tell him, but he wasn’t acting any different when I got back.”

“I was going to tell him,” Viktor lies. He doesn’t like to lie; he’ll only do it in situations like this, when he needs to cover for a secret, a surprise.

“But?”

Viktor shrugs. “I chickened out.”

“Probably for the best,” Chris says. “You did well in there—the Halloween party was a masterstroke. Inspired.”

“I can’t wait to start putting a costume together,” Viktor says, grateful for the change of subject.

“I’ve had a few ideas already,” Chris says. “I’m thinking I’ll be Gomez Addams—you could be my Morticia if you dyed your hair black.”

“Nice!” Viktor says. “You’ll have to dye your hair too. And shave your beard.” The beard, wispy as it is, is a point of great pride for Chris. He’s the only one in their group who can grow facial hair.

“That’s fair,” Chris says. “At least I get to keep the moustache.”

A party is a perfect place for a spot of matchmaking. There are rooms to lock people in, alcohol to ply the situation. It’s too long to wait until Halloween, though. And Viktor needs to act fast if he wants to stop Yuuri from getting any more infatuated with Phichit.

“You have two weeks to grow it out,” Viktor says, but his mind is elsewhere.

“Easy,” Chris says.

And… since Georgi has pledged his support…

“Hey, let’s go to the movies this Friday,” Viktor says. “Skip out on whoever’s doing the recital.”

“Orchestra,” Chris says.

Viktor snorts. “ _Easy_.”

“You pick the film,” Chris says. “I’ve got no preferences.”

“Great!” Viktor says. “You can trust me with this.”

 

* * *

 

It’s the easiest thing in the world to convince Georgi to pull out of movie night midweek. He’s a born actor, the way he sells it.

“I’m so sick of my parents,” he says. “Don’t they know I’ve just been dumped? My life was changed, _irrevocably_ , and they want me to go to the grandparents’ place for dinner. At a time like this! When we’d already made plans!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Chris says. Something in his tone tells Viktor that all he wants is for Georgi to quit the dramatics. “We’ll go without you. You can come next time.”

“So movie nights are going to be a _thing_?” Yuuri asks.

“Sure,” Viktor says. “Unless any of us are in the recital on a Friday. We could always change the time if that happens, but the megaplex has cheap tickets on Friday nights.”

“It suits us all, I think,” Yuuri says.

The fact that Georgi won’t be there this week is all but forgotten.

Come Friday morning, Viktor conveniently “forgets” to set an alarm. He wakes up at half-past-nine and finds a dozen text messages from Chris on his cellphone—all to the tune of, _are you dead?_ Viktor gives it a little bit longer before replying, dozing on and off and staring at the ceiling.

Then, he types out: _Sry am sick :( ttly ovrslept_

It isn’t lying, he tells himself. This is subversion for a good cause, and god, it feels amazing. Viktor is still in bed by the time second period rolls around, and right when the school bell would be ringing he hears his phone instead.

“Viktor, what the hell?”

“Don’t sound so angry, Chris,” Viktor says, pinching his nose so it sounds like it’s blocked. “I didn’t ask to be sick.”

He coughs, for good measure.

“Idiot,” Chris says. “I don’t know how you got sick in the first place but—do you need me to bring anything over?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Viktor says. “You have fun without me. Go and enjoy the movie.”

“The movie,” Chris echoes. “ _Shit_.”

Viktor coughs again, not bothering to shield his phone. “Really, Chris. Would you miss out on Coppola for my sake?”

(It was four years ago when Georgi was at summer camp, as usual, and Viktor and Chris were at a loose end, as usual, and they snuck into the megaplex and watched _The Virgin Suicides_ —way too young for it—and Chris held Viktor’s hand because Viktor was bawling his eyes out.)

After a moment, Chris answers, “No, I guess not.”

“Good,” Viktor says. He clears his throat. “Have fun with Yuuri!”

Viktor ends up staying in bed until midday. He’s never done it before. Never skipped school, either. But with the knowledge that he’s doing this out of the goodness of his heart, he doesn’t feel bad about missing math class or even vocal technique.

It does get boring after a while. He can’t risk being seen by anyone at school—it’s lucky, then, that everyone at school is _at school_ , and Viktor can wander around Chawton in anonymity. People are more likely to recognise him as Crispino’s Employee of the Month November 2002 and April 2003 than Viktor Nikiforov, top talent of the Performing Arts Academy. He gets a burger for lunch—the kind of unhealthy eating he usually avoids—and walks to the skate park, where all the other slackers are busy skipping school.

He has his hair in a ponytail tucked down the back of his jacket, making him harder to recognise with shorter hair. Just as he’s sitting down, someone recognizes him.

“Hey, old man! What are you doing here?”

It doesn’t click for a second, but of course it’s Yuri Plisetsky. No one else would address him so directly, and in Russian. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says.

Yuri glares at him for what must be a solid thirty seconds before he speaks again. “Ask me, then!”

“What are you doing here?” Viktor says obligingly.

“None of your business,” Yuri snaps, sitting down next to Viktor.

“You shouldn’t skip school, you know,” Viktor says. “It’ll look bad on your permanent record.”

“I don’t give a shit about that,” Yuri says. “Besides, _you’re_ skipping.”

“I was sick this morning,” Viktor says. “What’s your excuse?”

Yuri doesn’t answer. He leans forward, curling his arms around his knees. His eyes are fixed on the skaters up ahead, and for a second Viktor sees a flash of vulnerability behind that hard façade.

“Ah,” Viktor says, “I get it.”

“You get what?” Yuri asks, not meeting his eyes.

“I moved here when I was ten,” Viktor says. He takes a moment to consider whether or not telling Yuri his life story is a good idea, scratching the back of his head. But now Yuri is looking at him expectantly, so he just goes for it. “I was the top ballet dancer in my class back in Saint Petersburg. My parents were absent but ambitious. They sent me to America to live with a friend of the family because he lived in a town with a school devoted to the performing arts and a ballet teacher with a good reputation. Obviously I was too young to start at the high school, but I went there for ballet classes. The rest of the time I was home-schooled. It was… it was very lonely.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Yuri says. He’s clearly aiming for some kind of malice behind his words, but his tone is questioning, curious.

Viktor nudges him with his elbow. “You’re young too. It’s okay to be homesick.”

“You quit ballet,” Yuri says, loudly filling the space after a pause. “Why?”

“You can’t always do what people tell you to,” Viktor says. “What they think is best. Sometimes you have to give life the middle finger and make your own way.”

Very quietly, Yuri says, “I don’t want to quit ballet. I just want to go back to Moscow.”

“There are people here looking out for you,” Viktor says, putting an arm around Yuri’s shoulder.

Yuri does not push him away.

It comes as a surprise—not an unpleasant one—that Viktor is one of those people, here, looking out for Yuri. Without intending to, he’s done something truly altruistic.

That afternoon, Viktor takes Yuri on a walking tour of Chawton, showing him all the best shops and all the weird parts of town that took him years to find, like the shop that’s never open but has different stock in the window every week and the vacant lot behind the gas station that’s growing its own garden of wildflowers. Yuri is still sullen and rarely has anything to offer to the conversation, but Viktor has fun anyway. They even trade phone numbers. Viktor distracts himself so thoroughly that he forgets all about _Lost in Translation_ , the rom-com he sent Chris and Yuuri to see together.

Hopefully they’ll work it out for themselves.

Viktor parts ways with Yuri early in the evening—he doesn’t have a shift tonight, Yuuri and Chris are at the movies, and Georgi is “at his grandparents’ place.” He wasn’t so bothered about that before, but coming out the other end of an afternoon in someone else’s company puts a different spin on it. He’s been talking for hours and he’s in that mindset where he’s ready to talk for hours more. The lonely apartment waiting for him at the other end of his walk isn’t going to let him off that easy.

He’s in the back roads already, so he takes an even longer route than he really needs to, just in case. Someone could spot him and word would get out—as it always does—and then his cover would be blown. No, he’s sick and bed bound today. All for a good cause.

(This caution didn’t occur to him when he was hanging out with Yuri, even after he knew school had let out.)

It almost works out, too. He’s nearly home when someone calls his name from across the street, waving him down. It’s Anya.

“Hey,” Viktor says. “What’s up?”

“Heading home. I didn’t see you in drama today.”

“I didn’t go in,” Viktor says. He coughs. “I’m sick.”

Anya raises an eyebrow. “If you say so. I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you for a while. To thank you.”

“Thank me?” Viktor’s brow furrows. “For what?”

“Are you being funny, or is your memory really that bad?” Anya asks. “For giving me that push in the right direction, duh.”

Oh. Viktor knows what she’s talking about. He doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“Me and Georgi were getting stale,” Anya continues. “I’m, like, pretty lazy, so I was happy to date him, since he was always good to me. But that’s just the thing, right? We weren’t _going_ anywhere. I don’t think it’s good for anyone to stick to one person for so long. I want to live my life, stay fresh, kiss other guys…”

Last year, their final assignment in drama class was to write a short script and have other members of the class perform it. Viktor remembers vividly how it felt to see his play performed for the first time, to see the lines he’d written delivered so convincingly. He hasn’t ruled out a future in screenwriting—just one of his many talents—even though it’s not really his speciality, because that moment, that experience, had felt powerful in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on at the time.

This is the same—Anya could be speaking to a script he’s written. She could be taking the words right out of his mouth, for all that Viktor agrees, and _knows_ he agrees. It’s the same feeling, that same rush of power.

So why, then, does it make him feel so uneasy?

“Ah, there’s no need to thank me,” he says, waving his hands about to cover for his own lack of a script. “I didn’t really do anything.”

“Not fundamentally, no,” Anya says, “but you set a plan in motion. That’s a big thing to do, whether you know it or not. So I’m thanking you.”

“Anya—”

“I’m much happier this way, and it really wouldn’t have happened without you.”

Viktor thinks of Georgi, alone in his room, crying to _My Immortal_. His stomach turns.

“Yeah,” he says, “I guess not.”

“Well, that’s all I wanted to talk about,” Anya says. “I’d better get going. See you ‘round, Viktor!”

“See you,” Viktor says.

His heart isn’t in it. He has to remind himself, it was for the best. Georgi’s sad now, but he’ll be happier later. He’ll be happier without Anya, because she’s happier without him. It would never have worked out. Never have lasted. It’s for the best.

The day draws to a close painted in the warm light of the sunset; Viktor’s apartment is relentlessly cold.

 

* * *

 

It’s Halloween, and all of Viktor’s friends are single. His bathroom has black smudges everywhere, and his hair is parted in the middle and dark as night with temporary dye. Chris’s moustache is half-eyeliner because he couldn’t get it to fill out in time. At least his pinstripe suit perfectly matches Viktor’s long, low-cut dress.

(At times like this Viktor is thankful that all his friends are artists too. If he went to the local public school, androgyny would be out of the question. Here, he can paint his lips blood red and bring out his fair eyelashes with mascara, and no one bats an eyelid.)

There’s no question that their costumes will be the best at the party. Last Viktor heard, Yuuri hadn’t even decided on a costume. Georgi is keeping his own as a surprise. He’s invited half the school, with the exception of Anya and her friends, since he’s nothing if not petty. And cutting out the acting students means less competition for best-dressed.

For once in his life, Viktor is fashionably early. Georgi’s parents asked him to come over the night before and help with the food, and he can never refuse Georgi’s parents. They made Halloween-themed snacks, equal parts adorable and tacky—things with grapes as eyeballs, spaghetti as brains, ketchup as blood. Now, Viktor is here early to put it all out on tables. Chris isn’t much help, but Viktor doesn’t chip his black-lacquered nails, so he considers it a victory.

Georgi, when he emerges, is dressed in a deep purple robe and covered in body glitter everywhere else. He stalks around bringing a touch of darkness to his path, and by the time the sun is actually setting, the rest of the guests start arriving. The costumes range from fictional characters to mythical creatures, from elaborate disguises to a sheet with eye-holes cut out of it.

To Viktor’s utter dismay, the ghost under the sheet is Yuuri.

“I couldn’t think of anything else,” Yuuri says. “So I just… cut up my bedsheet…”

“Isn’t the boarding house going to miss it?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri shrugs. “They change the sheets every week. And this wouldn’t be the first time they’ve lost one—there was that time Yuri tried to escape in the middle of the night by building a sheet rope and abseiling out his window.”

“I’m surprised he’s still here,” Viktor says.

“Well,” Yuuri says, “our room overlooks the courtyard. He didn’t get very far.”

Viktor can’t help but laugh at the mental image. “Probably for the best.”

“I think so,” Yuuri says, his head bobbing under the sheet. “He’s doing much better lately.”

There—tangible results. Viktor’s altruism is no flash in the pan. Even Georgi seems content, the first time he’s truly been in his element since the break-up. All these good deeds, all this happiness, it gives Viktor a good feeling. Like something big is going to happen. Like tonight is the night.

“Hey, have you seen Chris?” Viktor says to Yuuri. “He’s the Gomez to my Morticia.”

“Moustache and all?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor shrugs. “It’s mostly eyeliner.”

They find Chris by the punch table, dipping a ladle into a pressed glass bowl filled with juice, grapes floating at the surface. Viktor wonders if it’s been spiked yet.

“Hey, Gomez,” he calls, putting an arm around Yuuri’s shoulder and drawing him towards Chris, “look who I found haunting the hallways. It’s Yuuri the friendly ghost.”

“Oh, cute,” Chris says. “Where’d you get your costume?”

“Made it myself,” Yuuri says, poking a finger out through one of the eye-holes. “Ah—I smudged my glasses.”

It’s probably the worst costume there, a sheet with ragged-edged eye-holes and the very visible rims of a pair of glasses sticking out from underneath, but it’s endearing because it’s Yuuri. Chris clearly thinks so too. Even though nothing happened between them at the movies, Viktor still has high hopes for them.

(Not that he’d want them to stay together forever. Just long enough that they both get the most out of it.)

As the night wears on, it’s all dancing. Georgi invited a _lot_ of people, including some of the older ballet students. They’re uncool, but Viktor has to admit that they make the dancefloor—Georgi’s living room—a much more lively place. Mila leads Sara in a ballroom dance to some of the weirder emo on Georgi’s Halloween mixtape, and Viktor finds himself drawn into it too. It’s hard to move in the floor-length dress and stiletto heels, but he’s been dancing all his life and he’s not about to let himself be outclassed by losers.

He collapses on a couch, worn out. Yuuri is still going strong, doing the ballet routine he’d performed at the recital with Mila, only with their roles reversed. She lifts him and his bedsheet billows behind him. They’re tipsy and it’s not elegant. Viktor is captivated anyway.

Chris sits down next to him. “This is good. Are you going to take credit for the idea or can we heap all our praise on Georgi?”

“I’m more than happy to let him take all the credit,” Viktor says. He taps his nose. “That’s _altruism_ , Chris. When I do something good for someone else, I do it expecting nothing in return. Hey, you should get up there and dance with Yuuri. He’s looking pretty lonely.”

“He’s dancing with Sara now,” Chris points out. “I’ll grab him, though—I didn’t come here to dance, Viktor. I came here because I have mysteriously acquired a bottle of rum and I’m ready to drown in it. Are you in?”

“Of course I’m in,” Viktor says. “Yuuri!”

Yuuri spins around, slipping from Sara’s grasp. “Viktor?”

The world tilts when Viktor stands up, mostly because Yuuri jumps onto him and they both topple backwards. “Steady,” Viktor says, laughing.

“I’m steady,” Yuuri says, pulling the two of them upright. “What’s up?”

Viktor leans in close to whisper. “Chris has rum. We don’t want anyone else to get their hands on it, do we?”

“Don’t we?” Yuuri throws his sheet over his head so that he’s wearing it like a cape. His cheeks are flushed.

“There’s only so much rum to go around,” Viktor says.

“Okay,” Yuuri says. Then, he collapses forward, his head resting in the crook of Viktor’s neck—it takes Chris to prise them apart, and Viktor lets Chris support Yuuri while he goes to get Coke and glasses from the kitchen.

They head for Georgi’s bedroom. It’s upstairs, away from the party, and Georgi has a double bed courtesy of his indulgent parents. They’re good people, Viktor thinks, as he clears away the clothes sitting on the end of the bed to make room for him to sit down.

Georgi is busy downstairs, entertaining guests. It leaves Viktor with a window of opportunity to set his plans in motion.

“Let’s play a drinking game,” he suggests. “Truth or dare, Chris?”

“Boring,” Chris says.

Viktor jabs a glass of rum and coke in his direction. “Drink.”

“Wait, how does this game work?” Yuuri asks. “We drink when we can’t answer a question or do a dare?”

“I didn’t even get to ask a question,” Viktor whines.

“Fine,” Chris says, taking the glass. “I choose truth.”

Viktor can—and will—use this to get Chris and Yuuri together. He decides to ease into it first, asking Chris a question to establish that he’s available: “Tell us all about the last person you kissed.”

“Why would you ask me something so stupid,” Chris says. He rolls his eyes and shoots Yuuri a look that expects sympathy, and gets a nervous smile in return. “It was ages ago. I don’t even remember his name.”

“ _Boring_ ,” Viktor says, but secretly he’s thrilled. He knew the answer in advance, of course. This is not a time for taking risks. Now Yuuri knows it, too.

Yuuri claps his hands together, neglecting to account for the drink he’s holding, and ends up slapping one wrist with disproportionate enthusiasm. “My turn… Viktor! Truth or dare?”

“Hmm, tough question,” Viktor says. Then, grandly, “I will also choose truth.”

“I wonder…” Yuuri frowns to himself, his expression searching. “These questions have to be personal, right?”

“As personal as you want,” Viktor says.

“Do you like anyone?” Yuuri asks. He says it so quickly that he might not have said it at all, and if Viktor were any more drunk he might not have heard properly.

As it is, he hears it loud and clear. “Of course not,” he says.

“Bull _shit_ , Viktor,” Chris says. He laughs, a short, sharp sound. “No way you don’t like someone.”

“I thought you knew me better than that,” Viktor says, confused. “It’s not my thing.”

Chris shakes his head. “You say that. I don’t think you know yourself at all.”

“Okay, very funny,” Viktor says. He doesn’t know what Chris is getting at, but it’s about time Viktor got to the point. “Truth or truth, Chris, do _you_ like someone?”

Chris swallows a mouthful of rum and coke. “Pass.”

Viktor is certain of it now: the only reason Christophe “World Champion at Kiss and Tell” Giacometti would decline to answer that question would be if the person he liked was _in this very room_. He looks between Yuuri and Chris gleefully.

“Alright, Yuuri, truth or dare?”

“You just asked,” Chris says. “Let me ask him.”

“Okay, Chris, whatever you say,” Viktor says. Everything is going perfectly. This is _thrilling_.

“I pick truth,” Yuuri says, raising his glass to his lips.

“Yuuri,” Chris says solemnly, “have you ever had sex?”

Yuuri is halfway through taking a drink—perhaps pre-emptive—splutters, dripping rum and coke onto his bedsheet cape. “No! Of course not! What—no! I haven’t even kissed anyone!”

“You should probably kiss someone,” Chris says. “It’s, like, a life milestone.”

“Are you volunteering?” Viktor asks him.

“Can’t force it,” Chris says. “This sort of thing has to happen naturally.”

“I disagree,” Viktor says. “Listen, _Christophe_ , I’m a certified matchmaker. You _can_ just make it happen.”

Yuuri puts his glass down on Georgi’s bedside table and pulls the bedsheet back over his head, the eye-holes misaligned so he can’t even see out. “Call me when you’re done talking about this,” he says.

In the midst of Chris’s laughter and Yuuri’s reticence, Viktor gets a terrible, brilliant idea.

“If you won’t kiss Yuuri,” he says, “I will.”

Before Chris has a chance to react, Viktor puts his glass down too and scoots closer to Yuuri, lifting the bedsheet and slipping underneath. He doesn’t intend to kiss Yuuri at all—if Chris has his head screwed on right, he’ll put an end to the moment before it can even begin.

“Hey,” Viktor says. His face is very close to Yuuri’s. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Yuuri half-smiles. “I guess.”

What happens next happens in a matter of seconds, but to Viktor they’re the slowest seconds he’s ever passed. Yuuri raises his arm, shifting the bedsheet, and drags his fingers through Viktor’s hair before settling his hand to cup the back of Viktor’s head. He moves forward and brings Viktor towards him and they meet each other halfway, at this unique point in space and time, a moment now irrevocably stolen by Viktor’s first kiss.

It’s nothing like a kiss in the movies—just Viktor’s red lipstick against Yuuri’s chapstick, a rush of air as Yuuri breathes out against Viktor’s skin, and before Viktor can act on instinct and do something ridiculous like _kiss back_ , Yuuri pulls away.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Yuuri says, very quietly.

(Except he _did_ , he kissed Viktor and Viktor kissed him and they _kissed_ and—)

“What’s going under there?” Chris asks.

Viktor is suitably dazed when Chris lifts up the bedsheet and slides underneath.

“Nothing,” Yuuri says, except the red stain to his lips tells a different story. It’s dark beneath the sheet. Maybe Chris can’t see. He never wears his reading glasses if he can help it.

This is quickly sliding out of Viktor’s grasp. He didn’t mean to kiss Yuuri, and Yuuri definitely wasn’t meant to kiss him. Yuuri and Chris—that’s how it was meant to happen. Viktor’s brain is running a mile a minute, recalculating, setting his plans back on course.

“Ooh, I forgot to get Georgi,” Viktor says, slipping out from under the sheet, leaving Chris there with Yuuri. “I’m sure he’ll want some rum. I’ll be back in a second!”

Chris says, “Viktor, what are you—”

Viktor doesn’t hear the rest, because he’s already outside the bedroom, door shut behind him, his back to the wall and his breathing uneven. His lips are stinging. (Yuuri kissed him. He kissed Yuuri.) He shuts his eyes for just a moment, all the time he can spare. There’s a small table in the hallway, a square of wood on long, spindly legs, with a vase of flowers sitting atop it. Viktor takes the flowers off the table and wedges it under the door handle.

Satisfied that the door handle won’t turn from the inside, he can breathe. He can breathe again. His drink is still inside the bedroom, but that doesn’t matter. His head is buzzing. Finally, finally, things are starting to go right.

The moment doesn’t last long. Viktor is unable to tear his eyes away as the door handle turns, leaving a mark in the table before knocking it down to the floor.

“Viktor, what the _fuck_ ,” Chris says. He kicks the table out of the way. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

Yuuri is standing behind Chris looking dazed. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Chris says, not turning to look at Yuuri. “Viktor is playing at matchmaker. Isn’t that right?”

“I’m doing good things for people I like,” Viktor says hesitantly. “Altruism, remember?”

“I’ve had it up to here with your fucking altruism!” Chris snaps, his mouth twisted into a snarl. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? You decide that you’re doing something good and you use that to blind yourself to the fact that, actually, it’s shit! I am _not_ going to be match-made by you.”

“Matchmaking?” Yuuri pushes past Viktor and into the corridor. “Like with Ms. Baranovskaya and Mr. Feltsman?”

“Right,” Viktor says, “like—”

“Even after I told you I liked someone?” Yuuri interrupts. He looks shocked. He looks worse than shocked—annoyed. “You’re trying to set me up with someone _else_?”

Viktor gulps. “You’ve got to understand, Chris is really obviously into you, so I thought—”

“I’m into _Yuuri_?” Chris rounds on Viktor, pointing a finger at him.

“You’re not?” Viktor pauses to re-evaluate everything he’d assumed up until this point. “But—all those times you complimented his outfits, laughed at his jokes… how touchy you’ve been, Chris. You can’t deny any of that.”

“I’ve only been nice to Yuuri because he’s _your_ project,” Chris says. “Because seeing you so happy, so invested in something—that makes me happy. I would do anything for you, Viktor.”

Viktor doesn’t get a chance to ask Chris what he means. Chris closes the distance between them and kisses Viktor squarely on the lips. (Yuuri didn’t kiss with tongue. Chris kisses with tongue. They were meant to be kissing each other, just like Viktor had planned. But Chris is kissing Viktor. Yuuri kissed Viktor. This is too much for one night—absurdly, the thought that plants itself at the forefront of Viktor’s mind is that, actually, kissing really lives up to the hype. Yuuri _kissed_ him.)

“Do you get it now?” Chris asks, breathing heavily.

“No,” Viktor says, not because he doesn’t get it, but… “No, no, this can’t be—no, no no no, no—”

“What the _hell_ is going on up here? I heard shouting, like somebody was getting murdered or—”

It’s Georgi.

“Why are you all wearing lipstick?”

“Viktor,” Chris says, ignoring Georgi, “you’re so self-absorbed! Did you think this was what we wanted? You have no idea—no _idea_ what you’ve done—to people who you pretended to care about—I’ve liked you for _years_ , Viktor. I knew you didn’t know, but this—this—”

“Wait,” Georgi says, “what’s going on?”

Chris rounds on Georgi, his hands swinging wildly beside him. “And _you_! He’s fucked up your life too! Why do you think Anya broke up with you?”

“She said you weren’t forever,” Viktor blurts before Georgi can say anything. “She was going to break up with you eventually!”

“He doesn’t even try to hide it,” Chris spits. He doesn’t look at Viktor. “He told Anya to break up with you because he thinks people in long-term relationships are boring. He thinks he did you a _favor_. Don’t you see? Viktor isn’t a good person.”

Georgi is ashen beneath his makeup. “Viktor… is this true?”

“Of course it’s true!” Chris says. “Didn’t you hear him? Fuck! I’m so over this. I’m tired. I’m going home.”

He storms past them and down the staircase, his steps thundering out of sight. Yuuri is looking between Chris and Viktor, to Georgi, back to Viktor, like he doesn’t know what to think, what to say. Viktor doesn’t know what to think either.

“Viktor,” Georgi says. “You—”

“I’m sorry, Georgi,” Viktor says. “I didn’t realise she’d be so cruel about it, honestly! I felt really bad.”

Georgi’s lips twist into a grimace. “Feeling bad doesn’t cut it. Get out of my house.”

“But Georgi, listen, I—”

“Get. Out.”

Viktor wipes his wet eyes, and when he looks down at the back of his hand it’s streaked with mascara and eyeliner and sparkling grey eyeshadow. His feet move ahead of his mind, leading him downstairs and through the costumed crowd, out onto the front lawn. He totters sideways, leans down to pull off his stilettos. Barefoot on the grass, weeping, properly crying, it finally starts to sink in.

There is no meaning, and he _isn’t_ a good person. No amount of altruism can change that.

“Hey!”

Viktor turns back at the sound of Yuuri’s voice. Yuuri, his friend, his confidante—Yuuri will understand.

But Yuuri says, “What did Chris mean?”

“What did he—“

“He called me your _project_ ,” Yuuri says. “What did he mean? Am I no more than a charity case to you?”

“I thought it would be cool,” Viktor says, because there’s no point lying. “If I could make someone cool. You know, start from scratch, go from loser to popular. I knew it couldn’t be anyone except you, Yuuri. In my mind, you were already cool. We just had to convince the rest of the world.”

“You’re awful,” Yuuri says. He’s crying, too. Big, ugly tears fall down his face. The bedsheet slips from around his shoulders. “I really liked you.”

Past tense.

“I like you too,” Viktor says. Present tense.

“You know what,” Yuuri says. “I _am_ cool. I’m popular, and I would’ve become popular with or without you. I have—since I moved here I’ve made so many friends, people that you don’t even know _exist_ , Viktor. And I’m going to keep being popular. _Without_ you.”

Yuuri pulls the sheet over his head, a makeshift ghost again. He turns on his heel and walks back into the party, shoulders shaking.

Viktor collapses onto the grass and cries, and cries, and cries.

 

* * *

 

It’s past midnight on the first of November and Viktor’s apartment is dead quiet. He strips off his Morticia costume and runs a bath. While he waits he wipes the makeup off his face—underneath the glamour and artifice is a sad boy with no friends. Viktor used to have friends—Sara, who he stopped socializing with when she stopped being popular. Georgi, whose life he played with for his own satisfaction. Chris, who had been by his side all this time.

Yuuri.

Viktor wipes the last traces of the lipstick from his mouth—some of it left on Chris’s lips, some of it on Yuuri’s.

Chris’s words run through Viktor’s head on repeat. Chris _likes_ him. Chris, who’s all about having fun and sleeping around, likes Viktor. Or, if he did, he probably doesn’t like Viktor anymore. How had Viktor not noticed? There was nothing in Chris’s behaviour that could’ve clued him in, was there? Chris was just Chris. Viktor had never noticed any change.

And Yuuri—how can Viktor possibly claim to care for Yuuri when he _knew_ that Yuuri liked Phichit and went ahead and tried to set him up with Chris anyway?

It’s a mess.

Viktor sits in the bathtub and submerges himself until all the black dye has run out of his hair and he’s lying in a swirling basin of filthy water. He sits there until it stops being calming and starts being boring, and when he gets back into his bedroom he sees that it’s two in the morning.

Reflexively, he reaches for his cellphone and goes to text Chris, before he remembers. He’s not sure he could face Chris right now, even if they were still on speaking terms. But Yuuri—Viktor scrolls through his contacts until he gets to _Y_ , and there’s—no, it’s Yuri Plisetsky. As close as Viktor will get right now.

He hits call.

The phone rings for half a minute before Yuri picks up. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he spits.

“You picked up,” Viktor says. “Is Yuuri back?”

“Yes, he’s back,” Yuri says.

Viktor hears scuffling as Yuri gets up, hears a door opening and shutting.

Talking louder than before, Yuri adds, “He cried himself to sleep under that stupid ghost costume. He wouldn’t tell me why he was sad, but I know it’s your fault.”

“Yeah,” Viktor says. “It is my fault.”

“So why didn’t you fucking apologize?”

Viktor heaves a sigh. He sits down on the floor, back resting against his bedframe. “I screwed up. I don’t think he wants to talk to me anymore. I only called to make sure he got home safely.”

“You clearly care about him,” Yuri says. “And—ugh—he cares about you too. It’s gross but if you have, I don’t know, emotions, or whatever, you shouldn’t throw them away.”

“That’s remarkably wise advice for someone so young,” Viktor says.

He can practically hear Yuri’s scowl through the phone line. Yuri doesn’t tell him off, though. He says, “You gave me some good advice. It’s only fair.”

“Thank you,” Viktor says, and he means it. What does it say that the only friend he has left is a fourteen-year-old who kicked him in the shin before they were formally introduced?

“Don’t,” Yuri says. “Just. Make things right with Yuuri, yeah? Or I’ll come ‘round at night and break your fucking legs.”

Viktor laughs, but he’s also crying, a bit. “You care about him too,” he says.

“Shut your ugly mouth,” Yuri says, and hangs up.

And Viktor keeps laughing, drops his cellphone to the floor and laughs until he’s only crying because he’s laughing. It’s only then that tiredness hits him. He falls asleep like that, lying on the dirty carpet with his hair in tangles.

Tomorrow, it’ll be a new day, a new start, and he can think about what to do next when it comes around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [playlist and notes](http://darkages.dreamwidth.org/1904.html)


	5. Act 5

Viktor doesn’t expect everything to be perfect when he goes back to school on Monday, but he doesn’t expect it to be quite this bad either. Word must have spread about what he’d done, the way word tends to spread at the Academy. There are two reactions: as he passes, people either look at him like he’s a monster, or they don’t look at him at all. Viktor understands both.

He finds out by eavesdropping what people are saying. The story has become warped, distorted on its travels. Rumor is that Viktor Nikiforov kissed two people in one night and broke both their hearts, although no one’s quite certain who—that one must have started with Chris. Rumor is that Viktor Nikiforov told Anya Efremova to break up with Georgi Popovich and she _did it_ —which means Nikiforov knows hypnotism or something. Either way he’s definitely evil. And he was just using Yuuri Katsuki—you know, that one really good ballet dancer? Yeah, him—Nikiforov was using him for, for something. No one quite knows what. But everybody knows.

Viktor lasts one period of English before it gets too much, and he spends the next period—drama with Mr. Feltsman—in the bathroom, crying. He feels like the world’s biggest loser. Georgi had walked past his usual seat in English to sit somewhere else, ignoring Viktor like he didn’t even exist. Viktor considers skipping again, going home and maybe dropping out of school forever. That’s not like him, though. He puts on a brave face and goes back to class in time for contemporary dance, the one class he’d never dare to miss. No one looks at him there, either, but by now he’s used to it.

Lunch is the hardest part. He walks into the cafeteria with his back straight and ready to face the fact that there’s no table waiting for him, no throne for the crown prince. It’s harder than he anticipated. He manages two paces with his head held high before he catches sight of Chris and Georgi sitting together, with a few others, at _their_ table, and he has to look down at his feet. And there’s Yuuri at another table, a crowd of juniors assembled around him. Yuuri doesn’t need to talk to hold court; it’s in his style, his bearing. As Viktor passes, deliberately skirting a little close to their table, he sees how even JJ defers to Yuuri.

That used to be Viktor’s life.

It’s lonely at the top. Even at his peak, Viktor never had more than a handful of close friends. That’s the price of popularity. That’s how it’s meant to be. That’s not what this is—Yuuri is surrounded by people and he gives himself equally to all of them. Viktor tells himself that this is just who Yuuri is. He has that pull on people. He certainly had that pull on Viktor.

There’s a half-empty table near the far wall with a few stragglers sitting at it, not talking to each other. Viktor perches on the very end of the bench, as far as he can get from the other losers. Well. This is his life now. Turns out it’s lonely at the bottom, too.

Viktor has always been good at adapting to new circumstances. When he’d first moved to America—it was big and new and weird and faster than he could blink, Viktor had made the landscape his own. This is the same. Okay, so he’s been forced into isolation, so people are ignoring him—that’s fine. He’ll come out of isolation. He’ll make people look. He’ll make it impossible for them to tear their eyes away. He’ll reinvent himself with the same flair he’s always had.

After school Viktor walks through the hallways like a ghost. He takes all the stickers and posters off his locker, inside and out. He finds a sharpie in his pencil case and draws a big black _X_ across the front of the locker. For change, for the crossroads.

His next stop is the mall. On the bus there, it finally starts to sink in. Viktor isn’t popular anymore.

Weirdly, he finds himself at peace with the idea. He remembers what Phichit had said about it, how it’s all arbitrary and none of it really matters anyway. It probably doesn’t. It had been the one thing that Viktor had to hold on to, even when he was at his worst, when everything seemed meaningless.

There’s probably meaning somewhere else. He’s too tired to go searching for it right now.

At the mall, he splurges—a whole new wardrobe, a selection of hideous t-shirts from Hot Topic that make him look like a cheap emo. He loves them. He buys a new eyeliner pencil and eyeshadow so dark it might as well be coal dust. He buys a bunch of albums from FYE that he’s never heard of full of songs he knows are just as unpopular as he is.

At home, he puts on _Transatlanticism_ and sticks safety pins in his new shirts. He rips his old jeans at the knees. He gets out his sharpie and draws all over his sneakers. He puts on _Sleeping With Ghosts_ and refreshes the black paint on his nails. A complete transformation.

 _Sleeping With Ghosts_ finishes playing and he switches it out for _Dear Catastrophe Waitress_ , an album he’d chosen purely for the title. Only, the album is full of happy songs—the only one that comes close to expressing the melancholy Viktor feels is _Piazza, New York Catcher_ , and Viktor puts it on repeat until he knows it by heart. It’s a song about longing, distance. All those things between Viktor and Yuuri. Viktor turns it up louder.

It’s a song about unrequited love.

This all comes back to Yuuri.

For so long, Viktor’s been telling himself that at his age, at this stage in his life, he doesn’t need a relationship. He doesn’t need crushes. It’s boring, it’s a distraction. Still, Viktor imagines what it might be like to rely on someone else. Not even a boyfriend, but a confidante—he thinks about that person being Yuuri.

Not that it’s possible now. Yuuri made his feelings very clear, and Viktor is a different person entirely. The next day at school, he wears his ripped up black jeans and a t-shirt for a band he’s never heard of. He draws circles around his eyes, thick black lines that make him come over all tough and unapproachable. He doesn’t bother tying up his hair, just lets one side fall over his face. It’s hard to see past it, but it works incredibly. In the mirror, he can hardly recognise himself.

Now—in the hallways, in class—people are looking again.

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck.”

“Hey, Yuri,” Viktor says.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Yuri says, “are you wearing?”

Viktor looks down. “My Crispino’s uniform.”

“No, idiot, on your face.” Yuri jabs a finger into Viktor’s chest. “What _is_ this?”

“Oh, you like my new look?” It’s not quite perfect—Viktor’s hair is in a bun, which is so not part of it, but for now, whatever, he has to cope.

“I hate it,” Yuri says. “You should be fired. What the fuck is that? Eyeshadow?”

It’s eyeshadow and eyeliner and a bit of glitter for good measure, and Mr. Crispino had no problem with it, so Viktor doesn’t see the issue. “I’m just being myself,” Viktor says. “You can’t compromise on individuality.”

“No,” Yuri says, “you’re acting out because you have no friends and you’re not relevant anymore. It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m working,” Viktor says shortly. “You’re embarrassing _me_. You can make fun of me when my shift ends.”

The problem is that Yuri is right, on some level, and he really has no business being so perceptive. But Viktor needs _something_ and he has nothing else going for him except his personality and his looks. At least he still has his job. Mila is frosty towards him—Viktor assumes she has the full story from Yuuri—and Sara is only one step up from perfunctory. Still, Viktor will take what he can get, talk to whoever he can. And okay, maybe Mr. Crispino had warned Viktor that his makeup would scare the customers, and maybe Viktor had ignored that warning, but he’s doing what he has to, keeping himself afloat however he can.

After his shift, he takes his time getting changed out back. It’s a cold night, and he’s not dressed anywhere near warmly enough.

“Ah, Sara,” he tries, “want to walk home together?”

Sara shakes her head. “Sorry. We’re going to the party at JJ’s. I thought you would be too.”

”I—” Viktor begins. _I didn’t know there was a party tonight_. “I decided to give it a miss. So much going on lately, you know. I need to work on my monologue for drama.”

“That’s not like you,” Sara says. “Putting homework before having fun? Who are you and what have you done with the Viktor I know?”

“It’s my senior year,” Viktor says. “I have to start getting serious.”

Sara reaches out like she’s about to pat him on the arm, but jerks back awkwardly. “Good on you,” she says. “I really admire that.”

“Well, have fun tonight!” Viktor says cheerily. “I’ll see you ‘round.”

He leaves before his nonchalance can crack. It’s a close thing. Just a few days ago the idea that someone would throw a party and neglect to invite Viktor would’ve been seen as the most egregious snub and the host would’ve fallen from social grace faster than you can say “loser.”

Outside, he has no scarf to pull tight around his neck. (Doesn’t go with the look.) A gust of wind hits him right in the face. When he blinks, there’s a loose clod of mascara floating in his vision. He blinks again, and it’s replaced by Yuri, standing before him with his hands on his hips.

“You said I could make fun of you after your shift.”

“I did,” Viktor says. “Do you think I’ll regret that decision?”

“I’ll make you regret every decision you’ve ever made,” Yuri says. “Let’s go. I want dinner. You’re paying.”

When you’re as unpopular as Viktor is, you take what you can get.

They loop up and down High Street twice because Yuri is unsatisfied with every restaurant and café and take-out shop they pass. Viktor gives up two minutes into the third loop and forces them to stop in a deli that does blintzes, which is satisfactory enough for Yuri to stop complaining. It’s late, and it’s freezing now, and Yuri gets halfway through suggesting that they go back to the boarding house before he catches himself. Viktor appreciates the sentiment, but he really, really, didn’t need to be reminded of Yuuri.

Anyway, he has a better idea.

“Say, Yuri, have you ever crashed a party before?”

“Why the hell would I do that,” Yuri says. “Parties are boring.”

“You only think that because you’ve never been on a dancefloor,” Viktor says.

Yuri shrugs. “I have ballet.”

“Let me rephrase that, then,” Viktor says. “I want to crash a party. Are you coming or are you going home like a baby?”

That gets the right reaction. “I’m not a baby!” Yuri proclaims. “I—fine, I’ll crash your stupid party.”

Viktor wishes the rest of his friendships were this easy. They finish their blintzes and get a bus to the suburbs. JJ’s house sticks out on the block—it’s the biggest, it has the neatest topiary, the most statues of Jesus in the windows. The music is the loudest.

From the street, Viktor can just see around to the backyard, where the deck leads out to the lawn and the pool. There’s a low fence; it would be dangerously easy for two dancers to climb over it. Viktor is standing around contemplating the ethics of climbing over the back fence or walking in through the front door, which is open and attended by someone asleep on the step. While he taps a finger against his lip, Yuri lifts a leg over the fence and hops straight onto the lawn.

He watches Yuri from a safe distance, waiting to see what kind of ripples he’ll make when he steps into the crowd, but—

—nothing.

It’s dark and the crowd is washed in the blue of the evening. No one stands out. Everyone is dressed the same. For the first time in his life, Viktor is starting to think that might be a bad thing. It is—not even a minute has passed before he loses sight of Yuri.

“Well,” Viktor says to himself, “that settles that.”

He climbs over the fence.

Maybe with Viktor’s distinctive appearance, people will notice him. Someone will ask who invited him. He’ll say, oh, was I _not_ invited? They won’t want to make a scene, so he’ll be allowed to stay. It’ll be just like it was before.

“There you are,” he says, taking Yuri by the wrist. “Don’t go drinking anything.”

“Idiot,” is all Yuri says, pulling Viktor further into the crowd.

Viktor’s never been at a party this late at night without also being tipsy. It’s strange—his senses are sharper now, his instincts keener. He can see each drink spilling before it happens. He feels like a pebble in a stream. A tree in the wind. Something poetic. Maybe he should become a poet.

Then, through the crowd, he hears Yuuri’s laughter. He knows it’s Yuuri, even over the sound of the music. It’s like an ambulance siren. (Viktor is the one being rushed to hospital.)

He’s always had poor control over his impulses. He wanders further in amongst people who aren’t talking to him and must be pretending he doesn’t exist—surely they know who he is, surely they recognize him—and walks straight into someone’s back.

Before the person even turns around, Viktor knows it’s Georgi. He’s talking to a girl.

“Hey,” Viktor says stupidly.

Georgi gapes at him.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Viktor says, even though he did, of course he did. “It’s, um—”

It’s been less than a week.

“You,” Georgi says. “I mean. Nice makeup.”

“Thanks,” Viktor says. It takes him by surprise. He doesn’t know how else to respond.

He wants to say something more—say _sorry_ —but Yuri’s at his elbow. “I’m bored. I’m going home.”

“Obviously I can’t let you walk home in the dark, on your own,” Viktor says.

Yuri smirks. “Obviously not.” He turns to Georgi, and—of course, it’s impossible to look down your nose at someone taller than you, but he makes a valiant go of it. “We’re not interested in hanging out with you.”

“Well, bye,” Viktor says.

There’s a moment—maybe Viktor imagines it—and he and Georgi share a smile. Then it’s gone, and Yuri’s dragging him away, and any chance of Viktor seeing Yuuri is lost.

Probably for the best.

 

* * *

 

Sunday is like the black hole of the week. There are never parties on Sunday night because it’s Monday the next day and everyone has to go to bed early so they don’t crash at school. There’s nothing to do in town; everything opens late after the church services are done and closes early, because it’s Sunday. Viktor is used to spending Sundays at Chris’s reading dirty magazines, or at Georgi’s helping his parents in the kitchen. Lately, he’s gotten used to going somewhere with Yuuri or having him over.

“So,” he says to his empty bedroom, “what’s it to be today?”

His empty bedroom is infuriatingly reticent.

Viktor sighs, kicking his legs up at the ceiling. He hasn’t bothered to get out of bed yet. Hasn’t even done his makeup. Yesterday’s eyeliner clings tenaciously to his face. As far as the day’s concerned, he hasn’t even begun.

Morning light comes in slow through his blinds and, sluggishly, Viktor pulls himself together. Being an unpopular emo (or whatever he is now) is no excuse for being a hot mess.

The only place open normal hours on a Sunday is the mall. It’s a little way out of town and the buses are less frequent on Sundays, but it’ll do. Anyway, Viktor has seen the emos hanging around at the mall, haunting the food court and loitering at the bus stop. Maybe he’ll make some friends.

He cleans up nicely and reapplies his eyeliner, battle-ready. He tries not to think about Yuuri, about Georgi, about Chris.

In his new guise, people stop and stare, and the surprised looks are worth the major heartbreak he’s enduring. That’s all he is now: a performer. The mall is bustling and full of families, and it stops being fun when a small child sees Viktor in his path and runs away. So he ends up in FYE again, rifling through CDs just to pass the time.

The biggest problem with having no friends is that being alone has always bored Viktor. He tries texting Yuri— _Wnt 2 com 2 mall?_ —and gets a long, angry reply that takes two messages to send, chastising Viktor for thinking that someone as busy and important as Yuri would want to spend any more time with him than necessary.

Fair enough.

Viktor’s day is going downhill fast. It must be some sort of Sunday syndrome, he decides. He’s sitting around in the food court, poking at a soggy burrito, planning his next move. Maybe he’ll just go home. Lie in bed for the rest of the day. Braid his hair in two just for something to do.

Then, something catches his eye.

He sees one of the shirts he bought Yuuri before he sees Yuuri, in line at the same Mexican place that did the soggy burrito. For a moment Viktor thinks Yuuri is alone, but he’s not. There’s Phichit next to him, and they’re chatting happily like good friends.

( _Like the friends me and Yuuri used to be_ , Viktor does _not_ think.)

Viktor wants to look away. He does. He keeps his eyes trained on them. Phichit says something and Yuuri doubles over laughing. When Yuuri stands up straight again there’s a pause, and then he leans in close to Phichit and whispers in his ear. Phichit puts an arm around Yuuri’s waist, and Viktor thinks, _Oh_.

 _White Flag_ is playing in the food court, faint and tinny under the background chatter and clatter of chairs. Viktor tries to focus in on the sound of a song he knows, something to ground him. His ears are ringing like someone’s set off a firework right in front of him. Before he can even stop to think about what he’s doing, he’s standing up and he’s running for the exit, his lunch abandoned.

There is something in this moment: a revelation, or an awakening. A realization—like a deluge, a cloudburst, a sudden downpour—that Viktor has no ground to stand on, no idea who he is or what he wants to be.

He _likes_ Yuuri.

Not just as a friend—he knows that. He’s always liked Yuuri as a friend. As a confidante. As _more_. As the answer to a truth or dare question, “Who do you like?” He likes _Yuuri_.

So much for his idealism. He’d thought it was as simple as wanting Yuuri to stay by his side, but even that isn’t simple anymore. He wants to kiss Yuuri. Again. He wants to take Yuuri out for dinner and he wants to pay not out of charity but out of some corner of his heart that he doesn’t have a name for. He just _wants_ , and his chest feels tight at the thought.

It starts getting complicated when he thinks about Chris, who has always been good to him, always forgiving, always _there_. Viktor can’t forgive himself for the extent that he’s hurt Chris, and he wouldn’t expect Chris to forgive him either. What had Chris been thinking? That Viktor didn’t reciprocate his feelings because he wasn’t interested in dating at all? Now that Viktor is interested in dating—in dating Yuuri—how is Chris going to react that it’s not him?

Viktor catches the bus back home, fidgeting with one of the safety pins in his shirt, opening and closing the latch. He supposes it doesn’t matter. Yuuri won’t go out with Viktor, won’t even talk to him. Yuuri and Phichit, the inevitable that Viktor had tried so fruitlessly to prevent—had that really been as selfless as his justification had been? Or was Viktor acting selfishly, trying to stop Yuuri from going out with anyone at all? The fact that he’d assumed Chris would be interested in Yuuri seems ridiculous in hindsight. Chris never goes out with anyone for long—well, now Viktor knows why that is, but he’s not going to think about it—and Yuuri deserves better than a short-term fling.

 _Long-term relationships are boring_ , some long-dead voice at the back of Viktor’s mind protests. Georgi and Anya. What’s _Georgi_ going to think?

The simplest solution is to never speak of it. Not even once. No one can know about Viktor’s crush on Yuuri, and maybe, given time, he’ll get over it.

 

* * *

 

Given time—a week—Viktor does not get over it. He gets done for vandalism of school property for the _X_ on his locker. He masters the art of perfect eyeliner. He suffers through detention like a total loser. He does not succeed in keeping his crush on Yuuri a secret.

The way it happens is both embarrassing and inevitable. He’s at Crispino’s—no makeup, this time—when Yuuri, Phichit, and Seung-gil walk in, along with a few other boys Viktor can’t name. Viktor reacts almost reflexively, tripping over his own feet to fall behind the counter and hide. He tries to squat but he can’t maintain his balance, and he falls onto his back, sprawled unhappily over the cold tiles.

“Um, I think Viktor’s passed out,” Sara says, standing over him.

Mila leans down, squinting. “Is he breathing?”

“I’m alive,” Viktor says. His voice comes out more like a whine than he’d intended. Slowly, he opens his eyes.

“Did you hit your head?” Mila asks. “No dizziness? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“None,” Viktor says, “your hands are on your knees.”

“Okay, good start,” Mila says. “Sara, I can leave table eleven to you, right? I’ll take Viktor to get some fresh air.”

“No, you don’t need to—” Viktor protests, but Mila is already hauling him to his feet, and given that he knows she can lift Yuuri with no problems, he goes slack and lets her guide him out past the kitchen and into the parking lot out back.

Mila sits him down on the curb. “Are you feeling better?”

“I thought you weren’t talking to me,” Viktor says.

“Don’t dodge the question,” Mila says.

Viktor rolls his shoulders back, trying to relax. “Yeah, I’m feeling alright. Thanks.”

Mila shuffles him across and sits beside him. For a moment they stay silent. There’s a distant din from back inside the restaurant, a bird calling out somewhere further down the street. Viktor knocks his knees together, unsure whether he should speak first or wait it out. Thankfully, Mila makes the decision for him.

“You didn’t really pass out, did you,” she says. “You were hiding from Yuuri.”

“I’m guessing he told you what happened,” Viktor says.

Mila shrugs. “A little.”

“Then what?”

“He told me that you were using him to prove you could make someone popular from scratch, and that he was going to become even more popular just to spite you,” she says.

That surprises Viktor. “That’s all he said?”

“Why,” Mila says, “was there more?”

It’s a dangerous question. Viktor purses his lips. “Yes. It’s more—it’s complicated. I didn’t realize what was going wrong until it was too late.”

“You like him,” Mila says.

This time, it’s not a question at all, so Viktor doesn’t reply.

“I thought so. From when I first saw the two of you together, I had my suspicions.” She pauses, smiling to herself. “If I wasn’t so distracted by the hot waitress I probably would’ve tried to set you up.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Viktor says. “I mean—not like that! I do like him. But, don’t try to set people up. Take it from me. It ends badly.”

“So that’s what happened,” Mila says. “What are you going to do to make things right?”

“I’m not,” Viktor says. “It’s too late. Yuuri’s dating Phichit now.”

Mila nearly topples forward off the curb. “ _What_? Since when?”

“I saw them on a date at the mall last week,” Viktor says. “They were being all touchy. It was—”

—heartbreaking, actually, but he doesn’t say it.

“Are you jealous?” Mila asks.

“It would be weird if I _wasn’t_ ,” Viktor says.

She nods. “Yeah, I understand. But… you can still make things right. You can apologize to Yuuri, as his friend. He deserves that much.”

“I respect that you’re taking his side,” Viktor says. “Why are you even talking to me?”

“You’re not a bad guy, Viktor,” Mila says. “You just did some dumb things and screwed a couple of people over. You deserve a second chance.”

A second chance. It seems like the kind of thing that’s too good to be true. Viktor tells himself to calm down—it’s Mila, it’s only one person. This doesn’t mean that everything will come right.

“Thank you,” he says. “I think I needed to hear that.”

“No problem,” Mila says. She slaps him on the back. “You ready to get back to work?”

Viktor’s legs feel like jelly when he stands up. There’s no one way to solve this, no easy option. The best he can do for now is to be who he is and take everything one step at a time.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

 

* * *

 

Yakov is wildly unimpressed with Viktor’s new look, but it’s nothing compared to Lilia’s reaction. She storms out of the room the moment she sees him and returns ten minutes later with a glass of sherry and a scowl on her face.

“The things they let children get away with these days,” she says. “Safety pins in your shirt! What next?”

“There are also chains on my jeans,” Viktor says helpfully, letting one of them jangle in her direction.

She gives him a furious glare. “For a young man who used to take such pride in his appearance… you have disappointed me, Viktor.”

“Let him disappoint you,” Yakov says, sweeping his hand in a broad, magnanimous gesture. “He’s young. He will keep doing it until he grows bored of it.”

“I’ll try to live up to your expectations,” Viktor says.

He doesn’t mind Yakov calling him a disappointment; coming from anyone else it would hit a little too close to home. Viktor is still raw from the other night at Crispino’s. He’d gone back in with all the strength he could muster and he’d done his job, despite the fact that Yuuri was _right there_ and totally ignoring him. Phichit kept glancing at Viktor—he wonders if Phichit knows that he was Yuuri’s first kiss. It’s a cruel, petty thought, but Viktor allows himself this one concession, until he grows bored of it.

And clearly he’s not enough of a disappointment that Yakov would turn him away. Yakov talks to him over dinner, asks him about his homework, how his monologue is going. Viktor hasn’t actually chosen a monologue yet—nothing is quite sad enough—but he plays along, goes with the flow of the conversation as best he can.

If he were being honest with himself, he’s missed this. Once he moved out of Yakov’s place he decided that he was mature enough to stop going back for dinner so often. He had an apartment and a job and friends who would drive him to parties—that was more than enough. Now, though, Viktor is ready to be a kid again. He lets Yakov scold him and talks back, but privately he hasn’t been so happy in a long time. Friends are a good substitute for a family, he thinks, but not all the time.

After dinner, Lilia goes straight back to her own home. “I can’t bear to look at this hideous makeup any longer,” she says. “It should be against school rules. I will have a word with the principal.”

Viktor pretends to take her very seriously until the moment the door closes behind her and he can’t hold back his laughter any longer.

“You shouldn’t take such pleasure in giving us old folk heart attacks,” Yakov chides.

“That’s half the fun of dressing up,” Viktor says. When he sees the look on Yakov’s face he adds, “I’m kidding! You have to admit I’m good at it, though.”

“Good at looking like something that’s just crawled out of a swamp,” Yakov says. “Is this _goth_?”

“It’s emo,” Viktor says. “But don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect you to know the difference.”

Yakov sighs. “You don’t need to try so hard to be someone else. The only Viktor who matters is the _real_ one.” He taps his chest. “In here.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Viktor says. “You didn’t get one of your best friends dumped and try to get the other one together with your crush.”

He shouldn’t have said it, but saying it makes him feel better. It’s said. It’s out there.

“It’s a wonder,” Yakov says slowly, “that you get any homework done at all, you’ve been so busy. Is this what you were asking me about? Doing something bad when you know it’ll have a good outcome?”

“Something like that,” Viktor mumbles.

“Take me through it from the beginning,” Yakov says.

“Promise you won’t turn it into a play,” Viktor says.

Shrugging, Yakov says, “Alright. I promise.”

So Viktor tells him everything, from his first act of altruism to his grand idea to make Yuuri popular, from Anya and Georgi to Yuuri and Phichit. Viktor’s always been better at talking through these things. His diary sits untouched in his desk drawer back at the apartment, and Yakov gets the whole story narrated in something close to a linear fashion.

“And that’s where we are now,” Viktor says. “Mila found out I like Yuuri and said I deserve a second chance.”

“You teenagers make everything so complicated,” Yakov says. “There doesn’t need to be this much drama surrounding every little decision.”

Which is something, coming from a drama teacher.

“You’re young,” Yakov continues, “which, on some level, gives you license to make mistakes. It’s not about these grandiose falls from grace, or about _second chances_. It’s as simple as recognising when you’ve hurt someone and doing what you can to make up for it.”

Viktor nods. “I don’t know what I can do.”

“You can start by apologizing,” Yakov says. “To everyone. One at a time. Until you have no more apologies left to make. And don’t tell them you’re sorry they got upset—tell them you’re sorry for your actions.”

“Yakov,” Viktor says, “I know how to apologize to someone.”

Yakov leans back in his chair, shrugging. “Better safe than sorry.”

It’s good advice, though. Viktor is grateful, even if he’s not sure how to show it.

On the walk home, he starts making a list of everyone he needs to apologize to. At the top of the list is Sara—although they’ve known each other for so long, Viktor was always so dismissive of her, and so rude when she started hanging out with the ballet students. She was never a loser. There’s no such thing as a loser, just “popular” and “unpopular,” and those words don’t mean anything anyway.

Next on the list is Georgi. He spoke to Viktor at the party he crashed, which means their friendship was never entirely beyond redemption in the first place. Georgi was the first friend Viktor made in America, and he’ll be the easiest to apologize to. Besides, Georgi’s parents love Viktor. They’ve probably already lectured Georgi about it, telling him to bring Vitya back one of these days, they miss him.

And Chris. Well, it’ll never be the same with Chris, not after everything that’s passed between them. But Viktor wants his best friend back, he wants the fun of having Chris in his life, the late-night drives and the sneaking around the cinema in summer. He wants Chris to know that he’s no less important to him even though he doesn’t want to be more than friends.

There’s one other person. Viktor fishes desperately for people he can apologize to. Phichit—for dismissing him, for trying to keep him apart from Yuuri. Seung-gil—for, for not being interested in Snake on his cellphone, for making fun of show choir. Who else, who else… Mila—for calling her a loser, although Viktor’s not sure he ever did that to her face. Lilia—for calling all of her students losers. JJ—for trying to make him into a lackey. Isabella—for making fun of her boyfriend. Yuri Plisetsky—for making fun of him, even though Viktor is more grateful for his friendship than he can articulate.

Yuuri Katsuki—for everything.

Viktor makes it back to his apartment in one piece, cold and sad and confused. Yuuri is the person he needs to apologize to more than anyone else, but the last person he wants to see right now.

Deep breaths. One step at a time. Viktor will get back to where he was. He’s had to reinvent himself once. He’ll do it again, and again, and however many times it takes for people to realize that he’s serious about making things right.

 

* * *

 

It’s a rainy Saturday morning when Viktor finally works up the courage. The courage to do what, he’s not sure. The courage to do _something_.

He sits out on his balcony and watches the wind blow the trees across the road. All the colors around him become muted on days like this. It’s exactly what Viktor needs to remind himself that he still shines brighter than anything else. He leans off the edge of the balcony and chips at his nail polish, watching the flakes fall two storeys down to the pavement.

Time passes quickly, and Viktor drags himself out of the apartment for lunch. He does his hair in twin braids, then puts on a scarf and a proper coat and sticks his braids down the back so that they don’t blow into his face. He doesn’t put on any makeup. It’s weird, and he feels kind of naked without his disguise; this way he’s anonymous, doesn’t draw any attention to himself. He gets pirozhki at the deli and stands under the awning. While he’s eating, he calls Yuri.

(The wrong Yuri. He’s not strong enough for that apology. Not yet.)

“Where the hell are you?” Yuri asks. “I can barely hear you over the noise.”

“I’m on High Street,” Viktor says. “At the deli. The noise is cars and rain.”

“And you chewing,” Yuri says. “You went to the deli without me. That was _our_ place.”

Viktor laughs, almost dropping his food. “We came here, like, once.”

“Ugh.” Yuri pauses, diverted by a background conversation. “Sorry, that was Yuuri—he’s going out.”

“With who?” Viktor asks.

“I don’t know, I’m not his fucking babysitter,” Yuri snaps.

Somewhere on the other end of the line, Viktor hears a door closing.

“To the shops,” Yuri says. “He’s going to the shops to get socks. A whole lot of stuff shrunk at the laundromat last week.”

“Oh,” Viktor says.

If he was still Yuuri’s friend, he would’ve known that. He looks around furtively, checking that there’s nowhere nearby that Yuuri could go to buy socks. It’s too soon—Viktor isn’t ready to apologize. Not right now. But today… yes, today is the day.

He says, “Can I ask you a question, Yuri?”

“No,” Yuri says.

“Great,” Viktor says. “Do you think it’s ever appropriate to do a bad thing because you know it’ll lead to a good thing?”

Yuri snorts. “You’re really asking me that? I’m mean to you like, all the time. And it works, doesn’t it? It gets you out of whatever slump you’re in.”

“I’m not sure that’s the advice I need to hear right now,” Viktor says.

“Well it’s the advice I’m giving you,” Yuri says.

Viktor takes a deep breath. “Okay. Want to hang out later this afternoon? Say, four? Maybe we could go see a movie at the megaplex.”

“If I must,” Yuri says. “Since you’re depressed I’ll let you pick. It had better be something scary though. I only watch scary movies.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re giving me much choice,” Viktor says, but he’s happy to go along with it, because he has absolutely no intention of meeting Yuri at the megaplex—he knows that if he tells Yuri to make sure he’s not home in the afternoon then Yuri will tell him to fuck off. Viktor will make it up to him some other time.

For now, he has another Yuri to apologize to— _Yuu_ ri, technically, with a long first syllable. That one letter makes a world of difference.

Viktor goes straight back home and throws off his scarf and his coat. He puts _Piazza, New York Catcher_ on repeat. He stands in front of the bathroom mirror and lets his braids hang either side of his face. There’s a pair of sewing scissors he keeps in a drawer along with his old dance costumes. He has the scissors in one hand, and takes one of his braids in the other.

It’s easier with his hair tied up. He doesn’t feel as sad about losing it when it’s not loose and flowing. He lifts the scissors and positions a braid between the blades. He closes his eyes, and cuts.

It takes less than a minute. His braids lie on the bathroom counter, and his hair is short. There was a little more hair in the left braid, enough that some of it hangs in front of his eye like a half-fringe. A bit emo, a bit preppy. It’s a good look.

“Another new me,” he tells the mirror.

The Viktor in the mirror grins back at him.

He’s ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [playlist and notes](http://darkages.dreamwidth.org/2146.html)


	6. Act 6

Viktor is not ready.

Or, more accurately, he’s unprepared. He doesn’t expect how light it feels to move around without two feet of hair hanging behind him. He isn’t prepared for the way his heart is pounding, or the sweat on his palms, the static in his mind that seems to have replaced all rational thought.

Also, he forgot to bring an umbrella.

He tracks water behind him up the stairs into the boarding house. It’s almost four, so the wrong Yuri should be out, leaving the right Yuuri alone in the room the two of them share.

Viktor closes his eyes, and knocks.

“Coming!” Yuuri calls. “Just a—Viktor?”

The door lies open between them and there’s really not that much distance but it feels like light years.

“Hey,” Viktor says.

“You,” Yuuri says. He closes his mouth, and opens it again. “You cut your hair.”

“I guess I did,” Viktor says.

Yuuri is gaping at him—it’s another few seconds before he snaps out of it, rushing back into his room. “You’re drenched! Hold on, let me get a towel, I’m sure I’ve got a clean one somewhere—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, “it’s fine. I don’t intend to stay long. I don’t think I can—it’s only so long before the other Yuri realises I’m not meeting him at the megaplex.”

“Is that where he went?” Yuuri returns holding a towel. “He didn’t say. _Viktor_ , that’s not nice. It’s raining out there!”

“I know,” Viktor says. “I’ll make it up to him some other time. I came here to talk to you.”

Yuuri thrusts the towel at Viktor, and Viktor takes it gratefully, wrapping it around his shoulders.

“Well, talk,” Yuuri says.

“I’ll start from the beginning,” Viktor says. He opens his mouth, closes it again.

Yuuri gives him an encouraging nod. “Go on.”

Viktor goes on. “I was—I’d been weird all summer. Like I was doing so much and none of it was enough to make me feel right. And then Lilia and her class arrived, and it felt like… like it was just the thing I needed to give me some variety. I see now that I was being self-centered. Not everything is about making my life more surprising. But at the time… somehow, I decided that the best thing for me was to start being a _good deeds_ person.”

“That’s why you tried to make me popular,” Yuuri says.

“That’s why,” Viktor agrees. “I wanted an excuse to spend all my time with you, and I felt like I couldn’t do that if you weren’t popular.”

Yuuri frowns. “When you put it like that, I understand. You did the wrong thing, but I understand.”

That’s more than Viktor had hoped for. He decides to push his luck. “The other bit of altruism—that was selfish too.”

“Trying to set me up with Chris?” Yuuri shrugs. “That hurt him more than it hurt me.”

“I didn’t do it for him,” Viktor says. “I did it because you said you had a crush on Phichit, and I thought he wasn’t popular enough to go out with you.”

“Okay, that’s cruel,” Yuuri says. “And all for nothing, since—”

“Let me finish,” Viktor interrupts. “Sorry, just—let me get this out.”

Yuuri inclines his head to indicate that he’s listening.

“There was something else,” Viktor says, “which I didn’t realise at the time. I didn’t want you to go out with Phichit and I don’t think I wanted you to go out with Chris either, which was the most selfish part of it all, because I wanted you to go out with _me_ , Yuuri.”

(Viktor has a fleeting moment of panic—he definitely just said that. His mouth is working ahead of his brain now, and doesn’t let him pause for his confession to settle.)

He goes on, “So I was in a kind of weird place finding out that Chris likes me—or _liked_ —because I obviously don’t feel the same way, and on top of that I had convinced myself that serious relationships are boring, and then last Sunday I went to the mall and saw you with Phichit and, I guess I’m happy for you, Yuuri, because you’re dating who you want to date and not letting anyone dictate your life to you like I was trying to do, and—”

“Wait, what?”

Viktor blinks. “What?”

“I’m not dating Phichit,” Yuuri says, eyes narrowed in bewilderment. “You said you saw us together at the mall?”

“Right, in the line for Mexican,” Viktor says, but he’s less certain now, and it shows. “He put his arm around your waist. You looked happy.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Oh my god, Viktor. You’re not mean-spirited at all, you’re just _dense_.”

“I don’t get it,” Viktor says.

“Phichit and I are really close friends,” Yuuri says, exasperated. “Same with Seung-gil. We come from the same part of the world and it’s nice for me to have them around, like you have all the Russians in town. Seung-gil was there too, by the way—he was saving a table while we ordered food.”

“So you weren’t on a date,” Viktor says. He takes a moment to process it. “I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Yuuri says. “You should’ve recognized that, given that you and Phichit are the same, you’re so clingy…”

“I’m not—” No, he _is_ clingy. Never mind.

Yuuri is looking at him through narrowed eyes. “Hold on. Did you say you wanted to go out with me?”

“Um,” Viktor says.

From somewhere deep within his coat pocket, his cellphone rings.

“Hello?”

“Viktor Nikiforov,” says Yuri Plisetsky, “I am going to _kill_ you.”

He hangs up.

“Well,” Viktor says to Yuuri, putting on a big, fake smile, “that was the other Yuri with a death threat, so I’m going to leave now! See you on Monday, Yuuri!”

“Wait—”

Viktor throws the towel back into Yuuri’s room and dashes for the staircase, leaping down two stairs at a time. He can hear Yuuri’s footsteps following him, but that’s fine, Yuuri won’t pursue him out into the rain if Viktor is fast enough.

He can’t face Yuuri again, not right now. Not after he’s effectively told Yuuri about his crush on him. Being outside, his wet clothes soaking through again, is almost comforting. Like this, he doesn’t have to think about it.

Then, he hears a shout from behind him: “Viktor, _wait_!”

Yuuri is standing out there in the rain, his hair flat to his head and water beading on his glasses. His hands are balled in fists by his sides, determined.

“I need to leave,” Viktor says, almost pleadingly.

“No, you got to explain all that to me,” Yuuri says. “Now it’s my turn.”

The ultimatum is left unsaid: the least Viktor can do is listen. The rain is getting heavier, but he stays where he is.

“I told you I liked Phichit,” Yuuri says, “but I don’t, not really. I just said that because you were asking and I wanted to say something, and… I knew how you weren’t interested in dating anyone, so I didn’t want to tell you I liked you to your face.”

“You don’t like me,” Viktor says. He’s trying to process it. “I like _you_.”

“You don’t,” Yuuri says. “I like you!”

“No, I definitely like you,” Viktor says, “don’t tell me that you—”

“I like you!” Yuuri yells. “I’ve liked you for ages! Shut up!”

“I didn’t say anything!” Viktor says, hysterical. He’s either crying or laughing; he can’t tell. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and also the worst, most embarrassing.

Yuuri takes a step closer, pointing a finger at Viktor. “I _kissed_ you.”

“That was because _I_ offered to kiss you,” Viktor says.

“No, that was because I like you!”

“You like me,” Viktor says. Yuuri _likes_ him.

Yuuri grins. “You like _me_.”

Viktor likes him more than he’s ever liked anything, more than dancing and more than being the centre of attention. This is brilliant, dizzying. This is new, scary, but it goes both ways, and Viktor thinks he could be the most unpopular person at school, the most hated, if Yuuri was the only person who cared about him.

“Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself,” Viktor says, “but would you kiss me again?”

Yuuri doesn’t bother to answer. He takes Viktor’s face in his hands the way he did at the party and kisses him properly. Viktor wraps his arms around Yuuri and lifts him off his feet. (Yeah. Definitely clingy.) It’s pouring and there’s a crack of thunder somewhere in the distance and Yuuri’s glasses are digging into Viktor’s face and it’s the happiest Viktor’s ever felt in his life.

He’s so caught up making out with Yuuri— _making out_ , with _Yuuri_ —that it’s not until the third time someone calls his name that it gets through to him.

“Hey! Nikiforov!”

It’s the other Yuri, and Viktor reluctantly pulls away from his Yuuri to face him.

“You are going to regret ever looking in my direction,” Yuri Plisetsky says.

“Maybe you should get going,” Yuuri Katsuki says. “Go home, dry up, and I’ll see you on Monday.”

There’s so much more that Viktor wants to say, but he won’t be going home unsatisfied. And Yuri Plisetsky is rapidly closing in on him from under a battered umbrella which could conceivably be used as an instrument of torture, so Viktor runs, definitely laughing, not crying.

 

* * *

 

Sara is waiting for him at the school gates, sitting on the wall. “Hey. Nice haircut.”

“Thanks,” Viktor says. “What’s this, a welcoming party?”

“Sort of,” Sara says. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Fire away,” Viktor says.

Sara hops off the wall and walks at Viktor’s side onto school grounds. “So, you remember the first time I saw Mila? We were working and she came in with Yuuri and Yuri, and she was like, the hottest person I’d ever seen, and now she’s my girlfriend.”

“Yes, somehow I knew all of that,” Viktor says.

“And you remember what else I said?” Sara continues. “That you should ask out Yuuri Katsuki and we could go on double dates?”

“You said that?” Viktor doesn’t remember, but it sounds like the kind of joke Sara makes.

“You were very dismissive at the time,” Sara says. “But now, since you’re actually dating Yuuri, we can totally go on double dates! How about it?”

Viktor laughs nervously. “I’m not dating Yuuri.”

“Um, yes you are,” Sara says. “Mila said you came over to the boarding house on Saturday and the two of you were yelling at each other in the rain and then you kissed. She saw the whole thing out her bedroom window.”

“Okay, well, I can’t deny any of that,” Viktor says, “but that’s all that happened. We’re not… we haven’t talked about it. I don’t want to make assumptions.”

“That’s cool,” Sara says, “I’ll make them on your behalf. How about Friday night? We can go to the megaplex.”

“Let me talk to Yuuri about it first,” Viktor says.

Sara slaps him on the back. “I believe in you.”

It feels like the conversation is ending, but there’s one more thing Viktor needs to say. “Sara—I need to apologize.”

“For what?”

“When I was popular, I always treated you like a loser because you weren’t,” he says, “and I was worse once you started doing ballet. I shouldn’t have acted like that. I’m sorry.”

Sara stares at him for a moment, her face not betraying anything. Eventually, she says, “Thanks, Viktor. I really appreciate that.”

He lets out a breath. “See you at work tonight?”

“As always!”

Viktor is restless all through English and drama, and by the time study hall rolls around he’s practically jumping out of his skin. Georgi and Chris share drama with him, but everyone’s working on their monologues so they don’t talk. Viktor tries to catch up to them as they leave—before he can say anything, they’re lost in the crowd.

At least people are acknowledging him now. The drama seems mostly to have blown over, and there are a lot of questions about his hair. When asked, Viktor decides on the fly that he’ll donate the hair he cut off to the wig and costume shop on High Street. In the end, he spends all of study hall answering questions, and it’s not until lunch that he gets a chance to apologize to Georgi and Chris.

He chickens out.

Yuuri’s at a table with Sara and Mila, Phichit and Seung-gil, and a lot of others Viktor doesn’t know. That’s fine—Viktor’s never been uncomfortable with a crowd. He’ll play it safe, for now.

“Hey, Yuuri!”

The table falls into an uneasy silence. Yuuri looks up slowly from his lunch. “Um, hey, Viktor.”

“What’s up?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri seems distant. Had Viktor dreamt everything that happened between them?

“Oh, nothing,” Yuuri says. His contemplative frown flickers momentarily into a smirk. “It’s just—you can’t sit here, Viktor. You know, since you’re not popular anymore.”

“That’s right,” Mila pipes up, “this is the popular table now. Juniors only. No geezers allowed.”

“Can you believe that if you’re popular, you get, like, a whole table to yourself?” Phichit says. “That no one else can sit at? It’s the best thing ever. I take back everything I said to you, Viktor. Being popular is the _best_.”

Yuuri is beaming. Viktor can’t bring himself to be mad.

“Whatever, you’re the real losers,” Viktor says. “I’m a nonconformist. I don’t need to be popular to have fun. See you later, Yuuri.”

“I’ll meet you after school,” Yuuri says in Russian, and Mila nudges him.

As Viktor’s walking away, he hears Phichit say, “What did you call him?”

“It’s Russian for ‘you’re a virgin who can’t drive,’” Yuuri says.

Harsh, but fair. Viktor’s never been so happy to be turned away in his life. But now—it leaves him with one option.

Georgi and Chris are at their usual table, by the window. It looks very big with only two of them sitting there. Well, it might be selfish, but Viktor thinks he’s the perfect person to fill that space. He misses them something painful.

They don’t look up when he approaches. He clears his throat.

“I’m here to say sorry,” Viktor says.

“To both of us, or one at a time?” Chris says, not meeting Viktor’s eyes.

“Both of you, one at a time.” Viktor sits down. “Georgi—”

“Save it, Viktor,” Georgi says. “I’m not interested.”

“You don’t need to do anything except sit there,” Viktor says. “I’ll just sit _here_ , and keep talking.”

Silence. Okay, that’s good. He keeps going.

“I’ve learnt a couple of things about myself recently. I used to think that being in a relationship was just a distraction from being young and having fun. I thought that everything that didn’t change was boring. Which is why I got so frustrated when I noticed that _I_ wasn’t changing. And—you two were there. You remember how I decided altruism was the answer to that.”

“Do we ever,” Chris says. Georgi elbows him.

“This might surprise you,” Viktor says, “but I was super wrong. Like, badly. Mainly because my idea of doing good things for other people was forcing other people into situations that would make _me_ happy. When I wanted to be single, I thought everyone should be single, and I got Anya to break up with you, Georgi. When I thought Yuuri had a crush on someone who wasn’t me, I tried to set him up with someone else, who also wasn’t me.”

“Wait,” Chris says, finally looking right at Viktor, “you and Yuuri?”

“I don’t know,” Viktor says, even though he kind of does. “I really like him, though. Sorry, Chris.”

“Why are you apologising for _that_?” Chris snaps. “You—Viktor, _I know_. At the party, I—I tried to tell you. You wouldn’t listen.”

“And he clearly likes you back,” Georgi adds.

Chris pulls a face halfway between disgusted and frustrated. “You didn’t work it out when he _kissed_ you?”

“So _that’s_ why he was wearing lipstick,” Georgi says. “Hold on, Chris, you were also—”

“Yes, I kissed Viktor too,” Chris says impatiently. “That’s not the point.”

“That’s totally the point,” Viktor says. “I hurt you by ignoring your feelings. I’m sorry, Chris.”

Chris puts his head in his hands. “God, how embarrassing. Don’t try to be nice to me now, Viktor. We’re past that.”

“Uh, yeah, same here,” Georgi says. “You kind of ruined our lives. We’re technically not speaking to you.”

“That’s right,” Chris says, alarmed. “We’re not speaking to Viktor.”

“I don’t mind,” Viktor says, shrugging. “I deserve it, after how I treated you. But… I’ve missed you both. A lot. Nothing was as fun as it should’ve been without you two around.”

“Is that meant to make you come over all sympathetic?” Chris says. “Because it’s not working.”

“It’s nothing but the truth,” Viktor says innocently.

“How much longer are you going to sit there?” Georgi says.

Viktor is certain of his answer: “However long it takes.”

 

* * *

 

After school, he meets Yuuri at the front gates.

“Viktor, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about earlier,” Yuuri says, waving his hands about nervously. “I didn’t mean to make a scene! It’s just…”

Viktor puts a finger to his lips. “It’s just what?”

Yuuri smiles and looks away. “It was so funny to see you on the other side of it all. You know— _unpopular_.”

“Ouch, Yuuri, I’m hurt.”

“Like I said, I didn’t mean to offend you, or anything!”

“I don’t mind,” Viktor says, slipping his arm through Yuuri’s. “I’m happy for you to be the popular one.”

Yuuri’s expression shifts sour. “That was your goal all along, huh?”

“Ah.” Viktor can’t deny that. He’s explained it to Yuuri, he’s apologized; he realizes now that doesn’t mean everything is automatically alright. “Let me make it up to you somehow.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so,” Yuuri says. “I like the clothes you bought me. I like the attention. Even if your intentions weren’t the best, I like being popular.”

In that moment, seeing the spark in Yuuri’s eyes, Viktor knows that what he said at the Halloween party was right: that Yuuri would have become popular with or without Viktor’s help. And not _popular_ , in the arbitrary way that Viktor was popular because he commanded it; popular simply by bewitching people, drawing them under his spell, attracting _friends_ , not followers.

“I haven’t exactly been the best friend to you,” Viktor says. “Have I?”

“But you worked that out without me having to tell you,” Yuuri says. “That’s worth more than any apology.”

Viktor thinks he gets it.

“Anyway,” Yuuri says, a teasing lilt to his voice, “since you’re unpopular now, it’s kind of embarrassing for me to be seen with you. I like you, but I have to keep up appearances. So you have to promise you won’t tell anyone we kissed, okay?”

“It’s too late for that,” Viktor says. “At least, Mila saw us kissing, and she told Sara, and now Sara wants us to go on a double date.”

Yuuri narrows his eyes. “She didn’t tell _me_ any of that.”

“I’m not making it up!” Viktor says. “Still, I—I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to go out with me. I’m happy to be your friend who you kissed twice and leave it at that.”

(He’s not, but more than anything else, he wants Yuuri to be the one to set the pace. He doesn’t want to screw up again by pushing things to go his way—look where that got him before.)

“Do I have to do all the work, then?” Yuuri asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Viktor, you’re—” Yuuri pauses, his lips twisting into a frown. “The fact that you did a couple of bad things doesn’t mean you and I have to be enemies for life. I know now there’s the social barrier between us, but I still want to go out with you. If—if you want to go out with me.”

“Duh,” Viktor says.

“Okay, _duh_ ,” Yuuri says, “it’s not obvious to me! You have to spell it out.”

“I want to be your boyfriend,” Viktor says. “Can I make that any clearer? I’ll be the best boyfriend ever, Yuuri. We can go on dates and eat katsudon together. We can go tonight, if you want.”

Unexpectedly, Yuuri goes quiet. He drops their joined arms and looks away from Viktor. “That’s all I wanted,” he says. “When I wasn’t talking to you—I couldn’t stop thinking, I just want to eat katsudon with Viktor again. Is that stupid? It’s such a childish thing, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” Viktor says. “It’s the least stupid thing you’ve ever said.”

“Oh, so all the other stuff I’ve said to you was stupid?” But it does the trick—Yuuri brightens again and turns to face Viktor, poking him in the chest.

“Ah, well, it’s all relative,” Viktor says, “like on a scale from least stupid to less stupid, that’s where most of it lies? I’m not sure there was anything that was _actually_ stupid—”

He’s interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. It’s Chris, with Georgi behind him. They nod to Yuuri—it’s definitely not directed at Viktor—and Yuuri gives an awkward smile in response.

“Hey,” Chris says. “Are you going to the party at Cao’s tonight?”

Now, though, they’re looking at Viktor. Viktor stares at Chris for a good ten seconds before he can respond. “I wasn’t invited,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s fine,” Chris says. “Want to come with us anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Viktor says. He glances at Yuuri. “We were going to—”

Yuuri elbows him in the ribs. “Viktor. Go with them.”

“Huh? But Yuuri, don’t you want to—”

“Um, I just remembered I have homework,” Yuuri says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Viktor!”

He squeezes Viktor’s hand, waves to Georgi and Chris, and leaves as fast as he can. Viktor is left gobsmacked and useless.

“Coming?” Georgi asks.

Viktor lets the question hang in the air between them. He wants to. He’s not sure if _they_ want him to, not really. But this is an opportunity, and he’s damned if he doesn’t take it.

“Coming,” he says.

Chris’s car is in staff parking, flagrantly and carelessly breaking school rules. They get in—Viktor in the backseat—and Chris floors it, tearing down the streets with a recklessness that Viktor had really, really missed.

“Saw you cut your hair,” Georgi says, leaning over the seat to look back at Viktor.

“I did it on an impulse,” Viktor says. “I feel a lot lighter, though.”

“It looks good,” Georgi says. He goes quiet again.

They drive on in silence for a few minutes longer before Viktor starts to sense that something’s wrong. The car pulls up at a red light. “Cao’s house is on the other side of town,” Viktor says.

“Oh, well done,” Chris says over the humming of the engine.

“We weren’t invited,” Georgi says. “ _Apparently_ being a triple threat isn’t enough to make you cool anymore.”

Viktor goes tense. This is _his_ fault.

“It’s the biggest injustice since that time I was passed over for the lead in _My Fair Lady_ ,” Chris says, “so we decided, fuck those guys. We’re going to have our own fun.”

“We,” Viktor says tentatively, “as in, the three of us?”

“The triple threats,” Georgi says. “Do you know any others?”

Chris laughs. “We’ve got a trunk full of beer and illegal fireworks. It’s a good thing you cut your hair, Viktor. I wouldn’t want it to get singed.”

It’s so ridiculous that Viktor can’t help but laugh along too. After all this—they’re still his best friends. There are irreparable things between them now, awkward, sad things, but they’re moving on, and they’re doing it together. Viktor’s heart leaps at the thought. Chris cranks the radio and _So Yesterday_ is blaring as they take the overpass out of town and into the countryside, far enough that responsibility can’t follow them.

They find an empty field, no houses anywhere in sight, and set up. Chris has a cool box full of beer and a few bags of chips so they don’t get too drunk to drive home. As soon as the sky gets dark, the fireworks come out, and with every bang and flash of colour Viktor feels himself change, slowly, like a series of small, subtle shifts that build up and sparkle somewhere inside him. He lets off a firework that throws him backwards, and Georgi catches him, and they’re laughing like they always used to.

At nine Georgi gets an angry phone call from his mother, demanding to know where he is and when he’ll be home. While he sits in the car—the window wound down, his shouting still audible—Viktor collapses back on the grass behind Chris, bottle in hand. He’s not drunk, just pleasantly buzzed; he turns to look at Chris, whose attention is caught somewhere in the distance.

But it’s Chris who speaks first. “You know, this is pretty liberating.”

“Isn’t it?” Viktor agrees. “There’s something about breaking the law that—”

“Not what I meant,” Chris says. “I mean. Getting over you.”

Viktor twists his beer bottle between his fingers, letting the condensation run down his palms. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Chris says. “You wasted time refusing to go out with anyone, I wasted time hooking up with all sorts of people even though I liked you. Now that I know you’re not worth my time, I’m thinking of people as _people_ , not as _not Viktor_. Last week I blew a guy behind the gym and I didn’t think of you once. It was incredible.”

“I’m sorry I never worked it out,” Viktor says, very quietly.

“I can’t hold it against you forever,” Chris says. “You fucked up bigtime, but you’re still my best friend.”

“What about Georgi?” Viktor asks.

“I think he’ll forgive you eventually, but it’ll probably take longer,” Chris says. “You know how he is.”

“Yes, I—no, I meant, isn’t he your best friend?”

Chris shrugs.  “Can’t really trust anyone who listens to that much Evanescence. Next thing you know he’ll be a real emo.”

“I was an emo for a bit,” Viktor says. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You weren’t _really_ an emo.”

“I know,” Viktor says. “I listen to _indie_ music now.”

Chris makes a gagging motion. “It’s like I don’t know you anymore.”

“Maybe you can come over sometime,” Viktor says. “I’ll put on one of my new albums.”

Before Chris can respond, they hear the car door slamming and Georgi gets out, stumbling towards them and brandishing his cellphone. “I told her Viktor was with me and she let me stay out late, just like that! Unbelievable! My own _mother_ loves you more than she loves me. She doesn’t know what kind of person you are.”

“She knows I’m responsible,” Viktor says—he keeps a straight face for as long as he can before covering his mouth and giggling.

“Not funny,” Georgi says.

“We’ll sober up and then head back,” Chris says. “No more fireworks left, anyway.”

Viktor is so lucky, so thrilled to have his best friends beside him, after everything he’s done. He thinks about what Yuuri said—that he isn’t a bad person. He’s just dense. Well, no longer. This is the first day of his new life, and he’s going to make the most of it. He’s going to care about the people around him, for real.

That feeling—that’s brighter than any firework.

 

* * *

 

The megaplex double date is getting a little out of hand. It was meant to be Viktor and Yuuri, Mila and Sara, but Yuri Plisetsky caught wind of it from Yuuri and demanded that he come too, because Viktor owed him a movie ticket—Viktor is pretty certain the fact that _it was meant to be a date_ totally went over his head. And then Viktor made the mistake of complaining to Yuuri about this, and Yuuri decided that since because it wasn’t a date anymore, he’d just invite Phichit and Seung-gil, and then of course Viktor had to invite Chris and Georgi, to prove that _he_ has friends _too_.

Viktor thinks he might be the only one unhappy with this development.

(Since he and Yuuri started going out—dating, being each other’s boyfriend—they haven’t had much time alone, just the two of them. Yuuri still doesn’t have a cellphone. They make plans at school—or they would, if they had any time for it.)

“You said we could see something scary,” Yuri Plisetsky protests. “You have to buy me another movie ticket, now. To something scary.”

“I’m never going to the movies again,” Viktor says. “From now on if anyone wants to spend time with me, they’ll have to ask Yuuri if I’m free first.”

“Gross,” Yuri says. “Hey, Yuuri—you have shitty taste in people.”

“That’s why you’re his friend,” Viktor says, and he’s rewarded with a kick to the back of his shin. “But really,” he adds, catching sight of Yuuri rolling his eyes, “I’m sorry about doing that to you.”

“You’d better be,” the other Yuri says. “If you weren’t I wouldn’t bother talking to you ever again.”

“And you have every right to be upset with him,” Yuuri says, knocking his shoulder against Viktor’s. “Isn’t that right, Viktor?”

“Of course,” Viktor says.

Yuri scowls and peels off to pester Mila, leaving Viktor alone with Yuuri at the back of the crowd.

“What’s that face?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor pulls his face to neutral. “What face?”

“You’re grumpy about something,” Yuuri says.

“I want to spend more time with you, Yuuri,” Viktor says. “With _you_ —not with you and all our friends.”

Yuuri nods. “I know. We’ll have the whole weekend.”

Viktor knows that too, but it’s hard to focus now with Yuuri walking so close to him. It’s hard to focus on anything except Yuuri. They get to the megaplex and Viktor doesn’t even pay attention to the decisions about what movie they’ll see, just hands over his cash and follows the crowd blindly into the cinema.

The nine of them take up too much space, and Viktor finds himself sitting in between Yuuri and Chris.

“It’s weird having Viktor here with us,” Yuuri says, leaning over Viktor. “I thought movies were _our thing_ , Chris.”

“Why would we have gone to a movie without your boyfriend?” Chris asks. “Oh—unless this was before you were going out.”

“That’s right,” Yuuri says. “It was when he tried to set me up with you. Remember?”

Viktor puts a hand to his forehead. “Must you remind me?”

“Now I remember,” Chris says, ignoring Viktor entirely. “Can you believe that happened? I can’t.”

“Sometimes it comes to me and I laugh so hard that I cry,” Yuuri says.

Eyes shut, Viktor feels Yuuri’s hand on his knee.

“He’s a bit strange like that,” Chris says. “I’m glad he’s got someone looking out for him now.”

“Implying that you never were?” Viktor says, opening his eyes specifically to glare at Chris.

Chris looks unfussed. “I’m stylishly irresponsible. I can’t waste my time looking out for other people.”

“Well, you don’t need to worry about that,” Yuuri says. “I’ve got Viktor’s back.”

Hearing it said aloud makes it feel so much more real. Hearing Yuuri say it to someone else makes it stronger. He mightn’t be able to yell it in the streets, but having a group of people who Viktor is comfortable enough with to share something so personal—for now, that’s enough to keep him afloat.

“Aw, Yuuri,” he says, “I’ve got your back too.”

Yuuri frowns at him. “I don’t need anyone to have my back. I’m not the one who keeps making bad decisions and messing things up for everyone.”

“Come on,” Viktor says, “that was like, three times.”

“Four,” Yuuri says, “if you count telling Yuri you were going to meet him at the megaplex and then not showing up just so you could apologize to me when you knew I was home alone.”

“Oh my god,” Chris says, “Viktor, you did that?”

Viktor groans, slouching lower in his seat. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.

“You’ve really got your hands full with this one, Yuuri,” Chris says.

“I know,” Yuuri says. “Luckily for Viktor, I’m strong enough for the both of us.”

The commercials end and the credits start playing and they fall into silence, but Viktor knows Yuuri’s right, and he’s glad for it. Surreptitiously, he slides his hand under the armrest and links his fingers with Yuuri’s. Yuuri takes his hand and pulls him closer—Viktor jerks sideways with a thump, banging his elbow against the armrest. He lets out a yelp, loud enough that an usher escorts him from the cinema.

It could be worse; Yuuri opts to leave with him.

“I wasn’t interested in that movie anyway,” Yuuri says. “Want to go get katsudon?”

Viktor can think of nothing better.

 

* * *

 

 _Dear Diary_ , Viktor writes, and this time he’s actually going to finish the entry. He hasn’t touched his diary since the beginning of the school year—now it’s almost over. He’ll be graduating in a week. It feels like it’s been a long year, much longer than usual, probably because he was clueless for the first half of the year, about himself and about the people around him, and ruining all his friendships, then building them up again.

He doesn’t recognize the person he was at the start of the year. That Viktor was long-haired and popular; he assumed that he was worthy of all the attention he received because of talent alone. But no amount of talent can make up for genuine connections and proper emotional maturity.

It’ll be in the past soon. He’ll graduate, and then—

Well.

Georgi has a preliminary acceptance letter from a theatre school in LA, where he’s going to become the next big name in Hollywood, Viktor is certain. Georgi’s parents have Viktor over for dinner a lot, bemoaning how much they’ll miss their son when he’s gone, and that Viktor will have to come around every weekend to make up for it.

Chris isn’t going into musical theatre, even though that was what the three of them had always said they would do together. He’s become _serious_ now. His voice is maturing, deepening. He’s applied to a couple of colleges and conservatories in New York City to study classical voice. He wants to do opera—apparently, it’s very sexy.

Viktor isn’t really planning for the future. He’s put all thoughts of college applications and permanent residency out of his mind. He still has his job at Crispino’s, and a letter of acceptance for another job: teaching contemporary dance, part-time, at a kids’ dance school on the other side of town. It starts after summer ends—the months in between, he’s spending in Hasetsu, Yuuri’s hometown in Japan.

(He had been hesitant about inviting Viktor at first, casually mentioning Hasetsu and its famous onsens and its ninja house in conversation until Viktor had said, “I would really like to see it,” and Yuuri had said, “Maybe you could come over summer,” like it was an idea that had only just occurred to him.)

Maybe Viktor is too young to devote himself to one other person like this, especially given Yuuri still has one more year of schooling to go, but as all the money he’s spent on plane tickets proves, he really will follow Yuuri around the world, if that’s what it takes to stay by his side. Viktor doesn’t want to teach forever. He wants to study dance professionally, tour the world performing, retire at thirty to a career in musical theatre, and become a star of both stage and screen. But he also wants to stay in Chawton for another year and see what Yuuri wants to do after he graduates, so that wherever Yuuri goes next, they can go together.

There’s something freeing about not making any decisions yet, sitting back and letting life surprise him. That’s how Viktor always wants to live.

He picks up his pen and he’s about to start writing when his cellphone beeps with a text message. It’s from Yuuri: _I’m outside!!!_

Viktor goes to the balcony and looks down—there’s Yuuri, waiting on the street with his hands in the pockets of his shorts. Summer suits him. His hair has grown out a little, and he’s wearing a pair of prescription sunglasses that make him look unapproachably trendy.

When Yuuri sees him, he waves up at Viktor. “Ready?”

“Give me a minute,” Viktor says.

“Don’t be too long,” Yuuri calls back. “We’ll miss the movie!”

Viktor blows him a kiss before disappearing back into his apartment. _Dear Catastrophe Waitress_ is still playing, and the fan running—he turns everything off and changes into something more fashionable.

His diary sits there on his desk, lying open to the first blank page. _Dear Diary_ is all Viktor’s written. Impulsively, before he can change his mind, he shuts the diary and slides it to the back of his desk. He’s always been better at talking these things through, rather than writing them down. He’s young and his memories are vivid, his future lying in wait before him.

There’s no time to reflect—all Viktor can do is get out there and live his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [playlist and notes](http://darkages.dreamwidth.org/2508.html)
> 
> ~
> 
> there are a few special thanks in order: chiefly to a. for tirelessly beta reading this monster and taming it into something very pretty indeed. also to chel, for putting together a [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/spiderchel/playlist/52JtEQk903BR84hk4iekjN) of all the chapter playlists, and lori, for curating these incredible bonus playlists. thank you both for your support! and many more thanks to everyone who's been reading this fic. i've been very overwhelmed by some of the kind things you guys have left in the comments box :)


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